nuggetzman

SCRIBBLINGS ON THE STORMY PAGES OF LIFE

2010-11-14T19:29:00.000-08:00

SCRIBBLINGS ON THE STORMY PAGES OF LIFE

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“Look at the birds of the air, for they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?

...So why do you worry…O you of little faith?

(Matt 6:26-31)

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For a long time, I was sure I wanted to quit my job and step into another phase in my career marked by uncertainties and hope but the cries of bills to be paid hounded me out of that decision. I had dreamt of a time away from the constant routine of a 9-5 job which makes life cyclically rhythmic such that going against the habitual waking up at certain times and heading to work seemingly ruffled the safety of the conscious mind. So I had to stay put for another year, then a second until I became too restless to not care anymore about what the future holds after quitting my job. Call it adventure, a gamble or a stunt of faith!

But to say the least, life is about seasons and times, and often times we act as though we loathe and abhor this reality of change we live with daily. We wake up…we step out…we work…we eat…we get tired…we go hungry…we retire…we sleep, then wake and the cycle goes on even without our permission!

As a rookie neuroscientist and artist who’s fascinated by the art of living, I reckon that the nervous system is so wired that no external umpire is required to ‘time our lives’ or to nudge and prod us into doing what our natural circadian system (biologic clock) has perfected over time without us lending a hand. Despite how worried we may get, our hearts beat without our help, the lungs sieve out carbon dioxide even we are deep in our dreams at night, and the brain keeps the entire body coordinated while we snore away at night. How helpless can we then be!

More interestingly we are forced to reckon that the seasons of life were fixed long before humans understood their dynamics or why the trees, shrubs and animals responded and adapted to the reality of changing seasons of life. Trees will shed their leaves at fall, and new leaves will wriggle out of the stems and tree branches as spring beckons. The sun’s smiley rays in summer contrast the dour-look of the hapless rays that the ice-cold winter shields from warming the faces of humans.

Reality is; Life goes on whether we acknowledge the seasons or not, and the attitude we adopt in the flux and entropy of life’s seasons will to a large extent determine the outcome, not necessarily the output and immediate results. Often times, we are so focused on the results that the lessons and memories of the process that we are going through are dampened by our anxiety and desperation for instant change to occur.

But one constant reality of my life has been the changes that I have had to face. As a kid, I read so much about the outside world and knew so much about Europe, Asia and the Americas through my shortwave radio as if I have once been an inhabitant of those regions of the world. I have been a ‘part’ of the social movements, revolutions and upheavals in their societies as much as I have been affected by the socio-political changes in my own country Nigeria. I excitedly watched Berlin Wall crumble and how the concept of perestroika dismantled the walls of communism in Russia and the Eastern Bloc, while the winds of democracy blew across the world.

Besides my village where I grew up and have fond memories of, I have had to live in Kano, Enugu, Benin, Lagos and now Abuja and you never can tell where my ship will berth in the coming months. But as a kid, I was so filled with the reality of life in the village that I never projected into the future to ever imagine that days will come when I will end up as a ‘visitor’ to the land of my forebears even though I still live in Nigeria.

If I ever knew, I would have documented the joys of childhood, the memories of childhood friends that I hardly see again, the folk stories that I no longer can remember, and those witty sayings and proverbs that my elders interjected into their conversations that I didn’t master. Now I know better to cherish every phase of life and enjoy it to the full since the hands of the clock don’t do an anticlockwise movement.

Life and its seasons should be savored and lived through, not tolerated or abhorred, however harrowing they may seem. Embedded in life’s experiences are lessons and nuggets of wisdom that we ought to mine and refine for our future use. But more often than not, we are too anxious to get off the horse back rather than enjoy the ride especially when the terrain appears rocky and the paths bumpy and uneven. Come to think of it, a life that is smooth will only be a utopia of sorts, bereft of gem stones of lessons learnt, the joy of triumphs that overshadows the sorrows of losses and the frustrations that come with missed opportunities.

As the day for the new phase on my career path dawned, different thoughts assailed my heart, and the uncertainty of tomorrow loomed like a foreboding storm. But I chose to quieten the palpitations that threatened to unsettle my heart, knowing that I had been through this phase before. I have had to resign one job to take up another one. I have had to uproot myself from a city I so much cherished to get planted in another. I have had to leave beloved family members and friends to make new ones, and at every stage, it was my choice to move on even when it seemed as though I had a choice to allow the status quo to prevail.

The day to finally quit my job came…and reality once again began to stare at my face rudely. I watched as tears streaked down the cheeks of beloved colleagues I had worked with for the past few years. The emotions of saying goodbye appeared too strong to bear with for me and my colleagues. But at the end of the day, I had to go home and a new life beckoned from afar. But a distracting voice seemed to poke at my heart with such effrontery, ‘How long will you survive without the security of a guaranteed salary at the end of each new month?’ and I seemed to have stuttered in an attempt to respond back. But I have grown wise enough to not respond to a detractor, a cynic or pessimist for they act out their roles with such glee that makes an optimist appear foolish and brainless.

A few days after, while sitting still at my balcony after a rainfall, my eyes alighted on the remains of a bird’s nest that was yanked off from its resting place the previous night by the stormy wind. At first blush, I wanted to throw away the pack of maize stalks and dried grasses with which the bird-couple made their nest on my TV’s antenna. But the sustained cry of two baby birds stuck in the makeshift house caught my attention as I peeped into their anxious eyes.

My heart was torn and the bowels of compassion stirred up within me. I was moved to protect the hapless and helpless baby birds whose parents were no were in sight. I tenderly picked up the nest and gently fixed it back to the TV antenna, making sure it didn’t fell off again. I was preoccupied to see that they survived having been their landlord for a while, and I stripped myself of the thoughts that they’re mere birds!

The next morning I went by the balcony to check if the little birds were OK and to my deep pleasure, their parents had gone a step further than I did---they had gone to the adjoining farmyard to pluck more maize stalks and dry leaves with which they fastened the nest to the TV antenna. And these little birds snuggled in the warmth of their parents’ bosom within the nest until they were strong enough to fly out on their own. Few days ago, I checked the nest again but the birds were all gone and leaving behind the vestiges of cracked egg shells that affirm that birds once occupied the nest weeks ago.

The experience of the birds brought home the realities of God’s promises to the anxious Israelites which Isaiah documented (Isaiah 43: 1-3):

“But now, thus says the Lord, who created you, O Jacob,

And He who formed you, O Israel:

Fear not, for I have redeemed you;

I have called you by your name; You are Mine.

When you pass through the waters, I will be with you;

And through the rivers, they shall not overflow you;

When you walk through the fire, you shall not be burned,

Nor shall the flame scorch you.

For I am the Lord your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior…”

My conviction that God is committed to going through the storms of life with us has grown a bit deeper and stronger but not without the interludes of anxiety that resides in the heart of every human being. Sure the storms of life are often inevitable, but when we go through them, we should not despair for they only last for a while, and are to make us strong. Rather than lose heart, we should open our sails and ride on the wings of the storms like surfers and deft divers.

During this period of transition and introspection, I have sat back to watch with amusement the frantic pace with which we seek for change in our circumstances. But on the other side of the spectrum, the sun takes its daily steady stroll from the far horizon over our heads and back again to snuggle in the warmth of darkness. The world rhythm of nature around us steadies after each stormy night, and plants and shrubs that were leveled down by rainfall, gradually raise their heads and take root once again. Life continues and refuses to grind to a halt at the instance of storms, and so should we who believe in God and should learn to sing and praise in the midst of the storms of life like the Gospel Rock band Casting Crowns have so popularized. Just click on the link below to sing along and be encouraged by this song:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yr7i5L6kFT0&nofeather=True

"Praise You In This Storm"

I was sure by now
God You would have reached down
And wiped our tears away
Stepped in and saved the day
But once again, I say "Amen", and it's still raining

As the thunder rolls
I barely hear Your whisper through the rain
"I'm with you"
And as Your mercy falls
I raise my hands and praise the God who gives
And takes away

[Chorus:]
And I'll praise You in this storm
And I will lift my hands
For You are who You are
No matter where I am
And every tear I've cried
You hold in Your hand
You never left my side
And though my heart is torn
I will praise You in this storm

I remember when
I stumbled in the wind
You heard my cry to you
And you raised me up again
My strength is almost gone
How can I carry on
If I can't find You

But as the thunder rolls
I barely hear You whisper through the rain
"I'm with you"
And as Your mercy falls
I raise my hands and praise the God who gives
And takes away

[Chorus]

I lift my eyes unto the hills
Where does my help come from?
My help comes from the Lord
The Maker of Heaven and Earth

[Chorus x2]
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As I conclude, all I can pray is that you try not to lose your joy or song when the storms of life hit you. It may come as a loss of a beloved one, a business failure, a major disappointment, a delayed breakthrough, heartbreak, and the list goes on. Keep your cool, pick up the pieces of your life and take a ride with God through the storm. For when you do, you sure will come out stronger and will look back and sing a song in the storm!

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Felix Abrahams Obi is a writer based in Abuja Nigeria and can be reached via halal3k@yahoo.com and blogs on www.nuggetz4life.blogspot.com

I AM THE SON OF A WOMAN WRAPPER

2010-08-11T07:06:00.000-07:00

I AM THE SON OF A WOMAN WRAPPER

By Felix Abrahams Obi

Sunday, August 8, 2010

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Mum was visibly angry and sullen that evening and we wondered if anyone had annoyed her at the market or within our neighbourhood while on her way back to our home. And when Papa, who was sitting in front of our house with Uncle Brendan greeted her, "Welcome back my wife", she ignored him and walked straight into the house. My brother, Ikenna and I watched in silence to know what Papa will do.

Maybe he'll get angry and slap Mama when he comes into the house, and the extended family members will hear them as they quarrel. I hate it when Uncle Brendan and his wife, Mama Okey square against each other in a shouting match. Often times, Uncle Bee would pound, punchand beat her like fufu inside a mortar.

Uncle Brenda hissed and snidely asked, "What is wrong with this your wife today?"

"You know women behave like the moon. Today they shine with joy like the full moon and the next day, they are full of hisses, frowns and sighs like the crescent moon, with little or no glow." Papa for some unspoken reason always defends Mama before other family members.

Maybe it's because he married her as a young teenager who had lost her parents during the Biafran War, or maybe because the age gap between them is so wide that he sees her as one naive little girl in a woman's body. But how can a woman with four children be called a girl?Tufiakwa, that doesn't sound nice at all especially when it's my own mother. Mama even has some strands of grey hair which Ikenna and I used to help her pluck out from her scalp sometimes. And I doubt if Mama's hairs will not turn into a white field like Grandma with age.

''Dike my junior brother; you now see this is what I have always warned you about eeeh? Now you're reaping the fruits of your lack of manliness for the way you've always condoned her disrespectful behaviour and always making excuses for this your wife whenever she misbehaves. I don't blame her anyway because you know my wife can't try that nonsense with me. Dont worry, a day will come when she will urinate and dump shit on your head, and it will be too late for you".

'Emmm...it's not what you think Dee Brendan", Papa tried to explain. He respects his elder brother so much that he wouldn't attempt to call him by his first name without the prefix, 'Dede' or 'Dee'.

'Hey nwokem!,You had bettershut that your mouth up! Are you not so ashamed of being a woman wrapper all the time? And when anyone tries to correct your mistakes, you'd foolishly say it's because of love that you're letting your stupid wife ride over you. This is errant nonsense and our dead father will be gnashing his teeth in anger inside his grave because of this abomination!"

Uncle Brendan stood up, hissed and stomped back to his house while Papa watched in silence. Uncle always protested against dad's unusual tolerance of Mama's outbursts and I don't blame him because Mama could blow off the lid at will. She shoutsat us when we go out to play football or watch American Wrestling on the TV with our friends.When she nags, everyone shuts their ears so the heart wont be pricked by her scathing words.

That night, Mama and Papa locked themselves inside their bedroom for a long time and Ikenna and I pressed our ears to their doors to eavesdrop on what transpired inside their private chamber, as daddy called it. Papa didn't raise his voice and if they had argued or quarelled, the walls of the room must have swallowed up those angry and bitter words that tear and poke rudely at the heart days, months and years after they had been uttered during a quarell between a couple, friends or family members.

When Papa emerged from their private chamber in his wrapper and white singlet, he didn't look ruffled, but quietly went into the kitchen to prepare our supper. He served Ikenna and I, and took Mama's portion into their bedroom. That night he helped Ikenna and me to take our bath before we slept. And it was so nice to have Papa rub the Cocoa Butter cream on our damp skin like the Bone Setter that massaged Mama's ankle when she tripped and sprained it at the Nkwo Market. Mama didn't wake up early the next morning to prepare and serve us berakfast before we left for school, but Papa did. Kai, my Mama would have been a good drama queen like daddy will joke at times, except that she was born in the village, and couldn't go to the university to study theatre arts so she could become the dramatis persona on a stage!

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A couple of nights ago, I wanted to slap my wife, Nkiru for the umpteenth time to teach her a lifetime lesson of regret for daring to call me a 'foolish man' over a trivial matter. As I raised my right armmidair to strike her face, a picture of my late father flashed before me. It was as though a surge of electric current overwhelmed my hand that it grew limp and dropped to my side.I was literally stopped on my track by that sight of my dad peering scornfully at me.

I moaned out a sigh with my teeth locked in a grind, and the surface anatomy of my jaws stood out in anger like ruffled waves. To the chagrin of Nkiru who was usedto my slaps, kicks and beatings which left her with bruises and sometimes, black and swollen bags in her eyes, my hand ddn't land on her face this time around. It was that night, when something I'm oblivious of came over me that I resolved never to beat her again. Months later she would know why her arrogant and abusive husband had turned into a woman wrapper like my dad!

Papa had punished me severely the first time I slapped my younger sister, Ezinne, when she insulted and called me names for remindling her to wash up the plates and utensils in the kitchen after dinner. With teary eyes, she had gone to report me to Papa, who would not accept to hear my own side of the story, and the reason for the well-deserved hot slap I gave her.

With my bum facing the heaven while I lay on the floor, Papa gave me six strokes of the cane that made sitting unbearable on the wooden bench in my classroom at the Primary School in my village the nest day.He warned me to never show how strong I was by beating a woman for whatever reason. That if I thought I was strong, I should square up with fellow men to wrestle at the village square or go into the bush to tame or kill a wild animal. That a warrior only fights in a battle field to prove how fearless and brave he was, and that anyman that beats a woman for whatever reason was indeed a coward.He pulled my ear with so much force that the lops strecthed to ensure that the message crossed my eardrums into my brain!

After sharing my story, Nkiru's eyes teared up that night as I swallowed my pride to apologize for treating her with such angry outbursts tinged with contempt.For the first time since she joined me in the city, she melted into mya rms like a child. My heart ached as her tears wriggled down my chest upon which she laid her head while she sobbed. For the first time, my lips gripped hers and we kissed. For the first time,my eyes scoped and roved over her face and emotions of deep love and passion tried to choke my breath. I effortlessly lifted her up and headed into our bedroom...and that was the night I truly married her and she became mine for life!

I had met her during one of my long vacations as an undergraduate student in my State's University. She was then a smart looking secondary school student from a poor family whom I had a short fling with that led to pregnancy. I had to marry her upon my graduation for it was an abomination in my village for a young woman to have a child in her parents' home without a husband. She dropped out of school to wean our daughter, and my father paid her fees till she sat and passedher secondary schoolexams.Though I detasted her, my father accepted her as his daughter-in-law and doted on her as if she was his first daughter,his Ada; while I was away rounding up my studies.

The next morning, Nkiru woke up different from the grouchy, spike-mouthed and nagging wife that she had been since I tried to deny the pregancy. Save for my dad and mum, I would have succeeded in dumping her like my friends had advised me to do, 'cause that was the best way to treat a dumb woman who trie to traps a guy with pregnancy. Maybe it was my eyes that saw better, for all I know Nkiru had become once again, that sweet teenage angel that gripped my heart the first time I saw her. And if this is an illusion ofsorts, I'd rather swim and drown in it!

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(Felix Abrahams Obi is a Physiotherapist and Writer based in Abuja and can be reached via halal3k@yahoo.com or www.nuggetz4life.blogspot.com)

Cobhams Asuquo: A Man who made his heart, God's Dwelling Place

2010-07-26T08:55:00.000-07:00

COBHAMS ASUQUO: A MAN WHO MADE HIS HEART, A DWELLING PLACE FOR GOD

Sunday, July 25, 2010

©By Felix Abrahams Obi

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In the thousands of years that stretched back into the times of the Jewish patriarchs ,long before the coming of Jesus Christ on earth, men who had real encounters with God erected altars and sacred landmarks that immortalized those experiences. Abraham raised an altar. Isaac did. Jacob did. Moses is credited with the Ark of the Covenant. Joshua heaped pebbles of stones together after the Jews crossed Jordan River. King David built a tabernacle. Solomon built an imposing temple in Jerusalem…

During the historical days of Jesus Christ on earth, he once took a few of his buddies up on a mountain for a time out. They had an experience that blew their mind away as they watched the face of Jesus change from the familiar to reflect the glory of the sun. He literally glowed before them like a burnished gem stone illuminated with fire as Moses and Elijah appeared from heaven to witness the transfiguration of Jesus Christ. Simon Peter couldn’t contain the experience, and without thinking twice begged Jesus for the permission to do what the patriarchs had done in the past.

He wanted to build three tabernacles that would literally house that encounter divinity!Not long after however, Peter was snapped back to reality from that glimpse of glory and was not granted the opportunity to erect an altar like the patriarchs of old. But Peter, James and John never recovered from that transfiguration experience and other subsequent encounters with Jesus Christ. It is obvious that Peter, James and John had no other choice than to erect that patriarchal tabernacle in their hearts instead. While approaching death, Peter counseled his mentees with these words; “For we did not follow cunningly devised fables when we made known to you the power and coming of our Lord Jesus Christ, but were eyewitnesses of His majesty.

For He received from God the Father honor and glory when such a voice came to Him from the Excellent Glory: “This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased.” And we heard this voice which came from heaven when we were with Him on the holy mountain.”The deep sense of piety, sobriety and insight into the divine which Peter, James and John displayed in their later years and their writings is an evidence of the influence of the divine on their lives. Somehow, their hearts had not remained the same after walking around, working and living with Jesus for three years before his death.

Mere fishermen; unschooled and uncultured men having encountered Jesus became changed men who spoke and acted like Jesus to the amazement of those who knew their lowly backgrounds. The lives of these and other men prove to us the reality the law of cause and effect which we see all around us in nature. A stone moves from a stationary point and traces a trajectory across the airspace only when a force acts on it; maybe a catapult, the swinging arm of a child, or when the explosive energy of a dynamite is unleashed on a defiant rock standing on the path of a road under construction.

If you notice a man change from a notoriously ‘bad boy’ to a genuinely ‘good man’, you need not look too far for the cause of the transformation. The power of good which is far-greater than any force there is must have taken over him…but not without a fight over his heart by the power of evil!Today ( Sunday, the 25th of July 2010) I saw the evidence of this law of cause and effect on display yet again in the life of a handsome dude, an ace producer, singer, pianist and guitarist whose voice tears and cuts through the atmosphere and the hearts of men and women like a double-edged sword.

His face has this beautiful smile though devoid of eyes that can not capture the outline of the faces ofmen and women, nor can see the golden rays of the sun at dawn. What a beautiful sight it is to watch his fingers dance and waltz dexterously over the black and white keys of the piano, and when his lips part to sing or speak, the lasting effect of the words linger for a long time. My heart has retained this picture of his face and my wish is to build a booth of sorts in my heart which Peter had begged Jesus passionately to be allowed to build.

Many of us at the Congress Hall of Transcorp Hilton Hotel Abuja were awestruck as Cobhams Asuquo was led by the hands of his aide to the stage behind the piano where he settled into the seat gently. With the microphone adjusted to the level of his mouth, he needed no other help from anyone. He was not on the stage to entertain, but to lead us through an intense experience of heart-felt worship.He was quick to express displeasure at the whimpering response we gave when he enjoined us to holler Halleluiah to God which he said has become more of a perfunctory cliché among most Christians. The next opportunity saw us roar a shout of halleluiah that couldn’t be contained by the walls of the Congress Hall.

His first song which is an anthem of sorts in most Pentecostal Churches was ‘Here I am to Worship’ which he had rearranged in most ingenious way with the help of his band; a drummer, the lead acoustic guitarist, a bassist and two female vocalists. The acoustic and rocky feel of the song made it come alive so fresh and different that you could feel the newness of the song.He then went on to tell us a story about his fascination with creation and his Roman Catholic days when he was taught at Catechism classes that man was created to know and serve God. He wonders if we often take out time to ponder on why God created us, and if we’re created to worship God, how many of us have truly been giving God worship through our lives?

As we reflected on his charge, he went on to sing the second song; a love song to God that he had written which displays the intensity of his love God. He had titled it ‘Here it is…I’m still in love with You.”“Glorious Deliverer” is a song that he wrote while standing beside a generator, which challenges us to not put God in a box. To him, it’s such an abomination to try to equate God to anything. He exposed the futility of any human efforts to imagine that we’ll likely see God if we cross the different layers of the atmosphere above or measure the ‘bigness’ or size of God in meters, kilometers or tetrameters .

He considers his lack of sight as a blessing in that he faces no limitation imposed by the range of human sight, which allows his imagination to explore the limitless nature of God; who is bigger than what we say He is, and more beautiful than we think He is!Cobhams later narrated the story behind the next song he’d written at the wedding of a close friend of his. As the new couple exchanged their marital vows, two scenarios played out in his mind as he projected about 20 years ahead to wonder what will happen to this happy couple.

In one of the scenes, he saw a couple sitting together amidst the atmosphere of love, peace and depth of intimacy as they read the Bible and prayed together. The other was the picture of a couple who just had a ‘shouting match’ and was sitting apart, separated by silence and palpable strife. His prayer for his dear friend and his wife turned into a song he titled “Make our hearts Your home”, which he enjoined us to turn into personal prayer that entreats God to become resident in our hearts.

According to him, we often struggle with lots of bad habits, pride, strife, and fall easily into sexual sins and all forms of unrighteousness because we have not allowed God to be resident in our hearts, and it is a prayer he prays continually…. “Lord, make my heart your home”!After this song, he took out time to acknowledge and appreciate all the children in the hall. He blessed and prophesied over them, desiring that they would be able to correct the mistakes we had made in the past as a nation. He emphasized the need to teach children the ways of the Lord that will guide them as adults, knowing that the seed of corruption becomes more manifest in us as we grow older.

He related how he struggles with waking up late as an adult, and loves to sleep more in the morning even when he should be having his morning devotion. However, this struggle he said dates back to his childhood days in a boarding school (primary), when he used to sneak into the toilet to sleep for an extra hour after the 5.00am waking time. To him, we need a constant reorientation of the mind with God’s word to break free from this seed of corruption in man.His next song “Thou art worthy to be praised” which he heard first at City of David Parish of Redeemed Church of God, Lagos years ago is one song (aside Halleluiah Chorus) that he’d love to ask to be sang for him in heaven if allowed to make a jukebox request.

It’s a song he loves to sing in both the happy and trying times. The congregation joined to sing this simple song as his wailing and worshipful voice tore through our hearts, urging and nudging us to worship God in the beauty of holiness. Hands were raised, tears streaked down the cheeks of many, and not a few in the hall dropped down on their knees in worship to God under the weight of His glory!He took ‘Thou art worthy to be praised’ over and again in a refrain, before he delved into a medley of worship songs like ‘You are worthy to be Glorified’ and Yoruba ones like “Kabiyosi oo, God of heaven and the earth’ that stirred our hearts all the more. They were songs that extolled the greatness and power of God.

Though these are songs we are too familiar with, there is this special way Cobhams sings them; crooning and wailing at a high pitch, fusing into them poking words, chants and stirring charges that make them have a deeper meaning and enduring impact on the hearers.At this point the graveness of the atmosphere had become so tense that I could no longer take picture shots of him playing on the piano or record the songs with my camera; my hands lifted up in worship together with the rest of the congregation.

Yes I tried to hold back tears too, but my efforts were to lame to arrest the flow of tears down my cheeks. It was much later that I mustered myself together to wipe the tear marks away and didn’t bother who saw the tears as a lot more people had tears on their faces too!The atmosphere deepened when he began to sing ‘As we worship in Your Presence, there is healing. The Holy Spirit’s gentle touch, is flowing….Jesus I believe, Jesus there’s healing in Your name…” He talked about the healing of hearts and of sicknesses if we muster faith as large as the mustard seed, and he even talked about ‘Blind Bartimaeus’ whom Jesus healed as he cried out to Jesus in worship.

Though he prayed for healing of sicknesses among the people, yet he sincerely had said in the past that he doesn’t even covet to be healed of his physical blindness. There was a time in his life that he desired desperately to gain his sense of sight, but after encountering and knowing God deeper, he has quit looking for that miracle and rather had chosen to bring glory to God through his life, the lack of sight notwithstanding. And he sure had the moral grounds to challenge us when he charged us to ‘Turn your mess into a Ministry’, for before us is one man who exemplified that reality which God expects of us all; bringing Him glory!

To tie the whole intense worship experience together, he spoke for a while on the need to refocus our hearts on the true essence of worship which has more or less become perfunctory tradition of sorts devoid of its true essence in most churches. Worshiping God he emphasized was the major reason why God created us and he was quick to remind us this over and again as we joined him to sing the song, ‘Am coming back to the heart of Worship…Am sorry Lord for the thing I’ve made it, when it’s all about You, it’s all about You, Jesus.”And having worshiped for over an hour or thereabout, he dropped the crescendo as he urged us to thank God for what He had done in our hearts.

And we gladly joined him to sing ‘Thank You, Thank You Lord, Thank You Lord, for everything You’ve done…” and later rounded up this beautiful and lovely experience of intense worship with the hymn, ‘Praise God, Son and Holy Ghost…”When he had struck the very last notes on the piano, he rose from his seat and guided by his personal aide, walked away from the stage amidst a resounding applause from the audience.

The moderator of the event and CEO of Doxa Digital (a sound and events company), Mrs Dayo drew him back to give him a hug. The towering pastor of the Throne Room Parish of RCCG, the hosts of Cobhams (who was bent over on his knees in worship earlier) held him again in a bear hug for minutes before releasing Cobhams who headed towards the exit door, walking through the aisle flanked by a bemused audience gripped by a deep sense of piety and palpable sobriety.

I saw in the congregation two ‘facebook friends’ that I had earlier told about the worship concert in a text message. Ms. Carmen Talatu McCain (a Nigerianized -American) later in an sms said “Felix, thanks so much for the invite. The concert was lovely. Yes, he is really good. I like how thoughtful he is…”

And Mike Ogah, (the brother to John Ogah the winner of the maiden edition of Nigerian Sings) would comment later on facebook: “Seeing him sing with so much genuine love for the lord got me thinking 'Mike! how much you that can see?' when he said that the fact that he's blind helps his imagination expand so much as to how great God is…got me asking the lord for just one thing; 'to give me love, love that loves Him and humans with no boundaries and void of conditional love that is not criticizing or hypocritical'. ‘T’was an awesome concert’, he concluded.

As I stepped out of the Congress Hall, a silent prayer resounded deep in my soul which I wish would never depart from my lips (and millions across the globe), and it’s such a simple but deeply transforming prayer when offered genuinely unto God from a sincere heart; “Lord my heart Your Home.” Cobhams has prayed this prayer over and again, and it’s obvious this prayer has made what he’s become today; a 21st century modern mystic who has encountered the touch of divinity and a prophet of sorts; a true worshipper of God in spirit and truth!
……………………………………………………………………..

Felix Abrahams Obi is a poet and writer and moderator of Cry of Adam Network that seeks to have people have life-transforming encounters with God. He can be reached via www.nuggetz4life.blogspot.com or halal3k@yahoo.com

Lessons on the Bare Floor

2010-07-22T04:17:00.000-07:00

Lessons on the Bare Floor
Felix Abrahams Obi
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As a little school kid, I had a wonderful teacher who helped in moulding my intellect. She's the famed Madam Ogoke who taught me, A B, C, 1 2 3, and not to forget the Igbo Language alphabets; A, B, GB, CH, with its sweet rhyme of "Aka Bekee Gbo…!"We snuggled together on the bare floor, and had neither chairs to sit on nor desks to write on. We had our black slates which we carried on our heads, and white chalks wrapped in used paper. We were "otakara students" whose only snacks were "akara" balls. We had no lunch packs or chocolates wraps. And some daring lads added frills by sharing crumbs of dried stockfish and booties they pilfered from mother's kitchen.

Each day, we looked intently as this lovely grandmother and seasoned teacher taught us rhymes and fables that stirred and fired our imaginations. She made learning sweet and fun. We sang with gaiety and cared less, and the sound of the dismissal bell was followed by the resounding echo of "School Dismiss…Hurraaaay”. With speed we rushed back home to showcase the generous"good marks" the kindly Mrs Ogoke liberally gave us.Then we began to crack English grammar like "Obi is a boy" and " Ada is a girl". "Is it a man?" and we’d chorus "No, it is a boy".

We began to combine alphabets to spell out words. With time, words transmuted into sentences, then paragraphs and whole story passages.And with each successive advancement to a higher class after each term, the lessons we learnt changed considerably. Soon our slates were discarded for exercise books and pencils to take their place. A dozen years fast-paced by and I became an undergraduate, and a person of letters made up of building blocks of A B C, and 1 2 3!But not all lessons of life are transmitted within the walls of a classroom. The lessons that so much matter are those that are learnt in "classrooms without walls". These are the unbounded classrooms of everyday life that etch reality into our psyche. It is in real life experiences that the seeming conflict between the ideal and the real are resolved without the help of an unbiased umpire.

Life arrogates to itself the role of an arbiter who pays dividends on the investment portfolios that we have sowed our energy and efforts into. Sometimes the Return on Investments seems far from our expectations, either less or more than we bargained for. In all we gain wisdom from all that life dishes out to us.Much of this year (2006), I have learnt some hard lessons. I have had to come to terms with certain realities that I found to be unchanging. I realized that when I evade or fail a trial or challenge, a similar one shows off no sooner than I had heaved a sigh of relief.

Going thro the rigors and motions of passing an earlier test gave me wisdom to pull thro it the second time. Yet the imbibed wisdom may not necessarily help, save I apply the principles garnered properly and with the right attitude. A positive attitude often is a predictor of the outcome of a trial or challenge. I pulled thro difficulties when I didn't let them overwhelm me.The greatest lesson I learnt this year from my failings is profound, yet simple. That has been preached from pulpits but least practiced. It is said that "a prayer less Christian is a powerless Christian" and no one needed to drum home this point. For months on end, I slipped from progressively from quickly muttered prayers upon waking to "no-muttered prayers" each morning.

At night, the bed had more alluring pull on me than the floor that needed my "bended knees". My Bible (I have 4 versions at least) only had markings I made years back when I was so hungry to dig out nuggets from the Holy Book. That was when I fed fat from the Revealed Word. I felt inflated having a big study Bible which became a decoration rather than a means to an end.
Yet, like the average Christian, I bubbled on Sunday and felt ecstatic during praise and worship. The momentum generated died down faster than it was generated unlike a self-generated fervor at the place of personal prayer.

Hence Sunday service had become a dull routine with each succeeding week.With time, I began to feel weak on my inside. My spiritual perception became hazy, and with time it became difficult to make accurate decisions based on what I perceived as God's will for me. It was difficult ministering to folks I mentored because I lacked the spiritual strength to hold them up. I became easily distracted, and felt stressed up by simple things. Traveling frequently became a leeway for my prayerlessness, though an unjustifiable alibi. Miserable could define an aspect of the inner feeling that pervaded me for a lot of time. I sensed I must do something or accept this state of prayerlessness.

I tried on my own to pray alone, but it was all a whimper in muffled tones. Then I cried out and ran to a willing friend for help. Then we revived a prayer partnership that was left in limbo for years. In a couple of days, I began to see a difference. My seemingly disorganized inner life began to take shape. It was like a magnet drawing iron filaments together. I felt less under pressure and not like an atypical burn out working class Christian. With each passing day, I began to rediscover my spiritual rhythm again and though am still a long way from standing up from the "knocked-out and floored" state. I am learning to now sit, crawl, stand and hopefully run at the place of prayer.

What lesson did I learn from my travails: That it's dangerous for a child of God to take his/her personal prayer life for granted. Prayerlessness makes a Christian vulnerable to the whims and caprices of the enemy. It makes the travails and vagaries of life pummel us like bulwarks such that we cave in on the day of adversity. But that's not our portion as those who believe in CHRIST and submit to His will, plans and purposes for our life. Now it makes more sense to me when Jesus Christ declared, "Without ME, you can do nothing". I would be wiser if I follow the path trodden by the Heroes of our Faith, who persevered to maintain, a daily intimate fellowship with God. I now know why DANIEL's face was perpetually turned towards Jerusalem while working in Babylon."Let your gaze be upwards and heavenwards continually".Shalom and cheers.
Felix Abrahams Obi
www.nuggetz4life.blogspot.com

Lamentations of a Writer

2010-02-03T17:11:00.000-08:00

LAMENTATIONS OF A WRITER

©Felix Abrahams Obi, February 4, 2010

Somebody should have told me way back that I’ll someday carry burdens like Atlas of ancient Greece which no one could help off load from my heart. For if I had known, I would have played out the worst-case scenario in my mind, and would’ve carried my burdens to the feet of the sages and scribblers of ancient scrolls; to learn wisdom and how to heed the nudges and instructions of the Muse within. But I am now a prisoner, banished to the world of the unseen, which only the mind can imagine after a limp attempt to paint it with words. It is like a marketplace where the unborn wail day and night, hoping that the muse will hearken to their plea to enter the womb of another helplessly hapless writer who will travail until they are delivered of the incubated child within. A child born out of an intercourse that the two parties become so intimately entwined yet have not exchanged nuptial vows.

A marriage of an unwilling writer-bride to the over bearing muse-the un relenting groom that whose enchanting overtures cannot be snubbed by the most haughty of brides in the land of the living. Once the writer is impregnated by the muse, the destiny of each unborn life within begins to grow like a bloated sac. Days grow into months, till the end of the trimester when he goes into labour with no one to urge and prop him up to push and travail on the obstetrics bed till the newborn’s lungs fill up with earthly breathe of life.

I wish I knew as a newly born child that I had a womb that incubates the love child of ideas and imaginations. For if I knew, I would have asked to be courted by a prince of royal lineage so I would learn the secrets from the king’s troubadours and pipers. I would have sat at the feet of scribes and holders of ink ends to watch as they cover the blank scrolls with words and letters, symbols and markings that will point the way for generations unborn. I have lamented before the custodians of heaven’s secrets to see if they’d show mercy and lift this burden of a writer that keeps my head fussy. I would have asked for an elixir that can make one enjoy the travails of a never ending season of pregnancy and birth.

My travails with this groom, the unrelenting Muse started with pencil scrawls on any blank paper sheet as an innocent child. The scrawls grew into scratches and couches of words and alphabets, then one line sentences and paragraphs that make up a composition that the class teacher marked with red ink. When kids grew into boys and able to know about the world of girls, the pen became an arsenal that is used to send cupid darts that woos the hearts of maidens. Boys stirred the curiosity of girls with the ‘vocabs’ that were arranged to form love letters and poems that tickled their fancies and roused those sleeping butterflies in their tummies.

So writing became a hobby, and I enjoyed buying writing pads and postage stamps and envelops. My letters travelled ahead of me to the studios of BBC and VOA and I felt a tinge of joy each time a presenter read out my letter during their programs in far away from nations. In exchange I was offered tokens and mementoes; t-shirts, pens, broaches, calculators, magazines –things that made me feel that to write a letter was all there is to writing. I sought for pen pals since writing was called a hobby and letter writing was the only the activity that it entailed. But how mistaken and naïve I was then, and I wish this delusion was not self-induced.

The elders in my village should have warned me and their hoary hairs and wrinkled faces and sagged cheeks should have been a lesson in wisdom. They should have told me that those who strive to live like the sages must travail, they must birth, and they must die, for them to really live. That once must die to be reverenced and worshiped as a patriarch and respected as an ancestor. They watched me take this path without warming me about the work, labour, tears, loneliness that would shroud the ultimate ahead as a writer, a carrier and custodian of words of wisdom and life.

They watched me bury myself in books, but didn’t warn me that novels were novel ideas. They should have told me that Oliver Twist was a boy that lived only in my mind. That the ‘Adventures of Tom Sawyer’ and that of naughty ‘Huckleberry Finn’ were imaginations painted with strokes of alphabets created in the fashion of words and sentences with meanings. You see, when I buried myself reading newspapers from front cover to back cover, they hailed me as a good boy that has a head for books to the envy of my peers who loved to play while books lured me away. Yes, it was their fault to have called me ‘onye nwere isi akwukwo’ (a head full of books) that made me dream and imagine, and gloat in uncrowned glory.

Why did they not tell me that Gulliver didn’t travel to anywhere more than the mind of men like Hemmingway where he/it was marooned? That ‘Things Fall Apart’ was borrowed lines from an epic poem, and 50 years down the line, Chinua Achebe still makes us know how things fall apart in the bosom of our warped leaders and politicians. Why didn’t my JSS2 mistress tell me that the Kikuyu boy Njoroge and the maiden that stole his heart, Mwihaki were seethed romantic fantasies that sought for escape from the mind of the impressionable Ngugi wa Thiong’o.

They made me believe that ‘Samankwe and the Highway Robbers’ was not the act of will of a man that I least can remember. That ‘Eze Goes to School’ was indeed a fiction when I read similar stories of Obi and Ada in my ‘Primary 2 ‘English Reader’ just like that Yoruba boy ‘Bayo Goes to School’. They infused me with the same bug that made a mischievous boy experience ‘One Week One Trouble’. They made me read the ‘Student’s Companion’ where words, synonyms, which ‘Michael West Dictionary’ could not decode, until I grew big enough to own big sister’s ‘Oxford Advanced Learners English Dictionary’ with which I formed a book of ‘vocabs’.

And as I grew from a lad to a boy, they made m devour James Hadley Chase series and those Pacesetters that indeed set my heart racing into worlds away from this world. I found myself ‘On the Road’ with Kalu Okpi and my heart melted for an ‘Evbu My Love’ whom I never met alive or saw the markings of her grave. How can a boy grow with all this pictures, motion-filled live movies in his heart and come out straight? The human being resident in his heart will someday ask to speak, move, walk, and step out into reality from the fringes of his mind. You see, such a boy/girl will lose her creative innocence and become perennially pregnant with an eternal fetus of ideas, begging, shuffling, and striving to be born…he/she must become a writer by ‘fire and force’.

When others snore and snuggle in the warmth of their beds, he is pulled and lured to sit by the desk to write and punch away on his computer. His back aching and begging to rest…but will he let rest come to the muscles and ligaments that get so stretched and primed to work with no reprieve in mind? Not until his words make sense and not until the sentences connect in a loop of ideas will he rest. Not until the past buried in his memory comes alive and become the present future on the pages of a book will he rest from his labour. Not until he tells another’s story in a way that shows that he has truly shared and lived out that life he has chosen or was chosen to craft in words and pictures.

His labour and striving may end in a rolled up manuscript that publishers disdain, and he may weep for a manuscript that gets mistakenly shredded by a playful child, but he wails more about miscarriages and abortions that do happen to every writer…when the story he opts to tell refuse to emerge from the subterranean realms of eternity into the palpable kingdom of reality. You see, the writer may be tagged poor and lacking in earthly goods, but deep within him lies an unquenchable well which only a few can dig in deep enough to draw up its rich jewels.

You see though I mourn, I do not mourn over the death of a dream of an egalitarian future that our fathers had when they argued for self determination from those Colonial powers, of whose imperial kingdom we shamefully belong as the ‘neo-colonized’ in culture and sundries. I wail not for the books I have not yet published or written. With raised voice, I wail and lament for those who have not been courted by the Muse to open their bowels to receive His creative seed. I wail for those who have grown cold to His overtures and hardened their hearts to His wooing and those alluring dance steps that make a groom die of envy.

I mourn for those who have never experienced the sublime joy that comes when the pen drops after a poem is couched. Yea, the glint in the eyes when a story is finished after a tortuous journey through the birth of people and places in a writer’s mind. That glow in the heart when someone tells you ‘Oh, how I enjoyed your write up’. Dare I talk of the sense of grandeur that makes you know you’re like God, the Almighty and Creator of the world, who used words to craft the world you live in, and will die in. Now you see why I wail for anyone who thinks he can’t create…who thinks he can’t write…and worse still, those who have given up on reading because they think to read and write it is dated, old school and laid back.

Now you see why I mourn…but as I write, and the more I write, and as often as I write, I cease from mourning a dream that grew wings and flew away. For I will write, I will read, I will paint with words, and craft with symbols and forms till I no longer can read or write again. But while I breathe and feel the sweetness of life as a bubble of air escapes from my nostrils, after uniting with my being deep within, then write I must till ‘death do us part’!

(Felix Abrahams Obi is a Poet and Physiotherapist who lives and works in Abuja Nigeria and can be reached via halal3k@yahoo.com, and www.nuggetz4life.blogspot.com)

THEY CALL ME A FAG...BUT AM I REALLY GAY?

2009-11-11T00:29:00.000-08:00

THEY CALL ME A FAG (Adapted from a real-life experience/s)

By Felix Abrahams Obi
...................................

I have a beautiful name, Paschal that was given to me by my parents during my baptism as a child. My parents were close to our parish priest, who left Belfast several years ago to work as a missionary in Nigeria. They said I was such a bubbly little boy, full of energy and life and had named me Paschal because they wanted me to be like the Irish priest. Family friends who visit my parents are usually thrilled by my stage plays: I could mimick just any sound I hear and my mom believed I would likely become a clown if they didnt stop me in my tracks. I bought the idea of becoming a priest but by a stroke of ill-luck missed sitting for the entrance exam into the junior seminary.

My parents decided to send me to an all-boys secondary school owned by the church, with the hope that I'll be kept away from girls. It was the only alternative as close to a seminary education as the regulations in the boarding house were as strict as they could have been in a seminary. With joy my parents drove me down to the boarding house and it became my home for the next 6 years.I was only 12 and my class was a mix-grill of innocent, naive and exuberant boys who had dreams and goals. I didn't hide the fact that my dream was to become a priest at the end of the day!We all had one 'senior' or the other who protected us from being punished by senior students both in the domitory and during the school hours.

Senior Kennedy was very popular among the junior and senior students alike, and everyone liked him for his cool-headedness. He was made the Chapel Prefect in SS1 due to his consistency and commitment to attending church activities in the school. Since I planned to be a priest, I decided to fulfil the maxim that says, 'birds of the same feather, always flock together' and told him I wanted him to be my 'school father'. My parents were delighted with news when they came during one of our visiting days.So I managed to keep away from the wrong crowd. I closed my eyes when some mischievious classmates pull out 'Playboy" magazines they stole from their dad's collections to watch in between lesson periods.

They would usually congregate around the locker of the particular student with each little boy struggling for a vantage position to see the naked women on display. There's always a giggle and muted chuckles from my classmates whenever a new page is opened. Usually, another student will stand by the entrance door to check when a teacher or prefect is closeby. Once he whistles, everyone dashes back to their seats to evade any traps!I liked Senior Kennedy so much and he would rescue us from being flogged or terrorised by the senior students, and sometimes gave us provisions.

He and a few of the senior students had the rare privilege of staying back in the dormitory to rest during preps, and would ask a junior student to attend to them. But none of us the junior students knew why. It was not until my JS that it all came to light.My best friend, Kalu had gone to deliver a message to Senior Kennedy and his group in the dormitory during the games period after the one of the afternoon preps. I waited for him to join us at the football pitch but didn't come back until the game finished. Kalu liked football so much and was one of the best strikers in the junior team. When he came back, Kalu looked sullen and depressed. I tried to make him talk but he wouldn't budge so I gave up.

After a couple of days, Kalu brightened up and never told me whatever that happened even though we never hid any secret from each other before then.A week after while we were having our afternoon prep, my classmates hounded around another locker to flip through another porn mag. A particular picture aroused a lot of interest among my classmates. Curious to know why, I brushed aside my religious inhibitions and drew closer to peer at the magazine.

It was a picture of two men having anal sex; which to me was the most bizzare scene I had ever seen. In my naivity, I asked Kalu who was part of the group, '' What are those two naked men doing in that picture? Why did he put his wee-wee into that man's anus? Will the shit not stain his wee-wee and make it to smell?"The class roared in laughter and many jeered at me with shouts of '' Reverend Father, '' Mr JJC'', ''St.Innocent'', ' Mummy's boy'' and '' Mr Ntu'' . Feeling a bit embarrassed, I asked why they called me such degrading names especially 'Mr Ntu' which seemed to fly around with ease.

One of my classmates, Emeka who is the clown of the class asked derogatorily, '' Mr Innocent, so you don't even know what is Ntu?

I sure knew what 'ntu' was and answered. 'Ntu is nail ofcourse, or what had a nail got to do with my question? I retorted.

The whole class roared in laughter and chanted...''Mr Ntu, Mr Ntu, Mr Ntu...'' singing and chanting, beating their lockers to the rhythm of the chant. The song came to an abrupt end when the next the class emissary announced the arrival of the next lesson teacher.

Still curious, I asked Emeka during that evening's game and my vocabulary increased that day.

'Mr Ntu is any boy that does 'ikpo ntu' with another boy like those men in that magazine' he said, chuckling.

''But I didn't see any nail or hammer in that magazine. Do you mean those men are carpenters? I asked.

Emeka couldn't hold back his laughter.'So you want to tell me that you didn't hear that Senior Kennedy and his ba bad friends forced Kalu to do 'ikpo ntu' with them last week? So you don't know that since we don't have girls in our schools, the senior boys used to have sex in the anus of junior boys?

''Kalu is my friend, and Senior Kennedy cannot do that kind of thing. Don't you know he's the Chapel prefect?"

"So you think am lying to you ehh? OK now, when you go back to the domitory ask Kalu if am telling the truth or not", Emeka said and walked away
..................

I felt a hand move and rove over my body . I was far from deep sleep. But it was a soothing caress that lulled the hairs on my body to rest. The fingers of this hand were discreet in their cadence; stroking, teasing and gently kneading my chest muscles and wriggled down to my pubic area. A current of pleasure surged through me like hot flushes of blood and I tried to open my eyes, but the weight of darkness made my eyelids too heavy.

The same hand that caressed my body now enveloped my eyes. Another gagged my mouth. Additional hands hauled me out of my dormitory bed; a double-decker bunk bed! I could only hear the eerie screeches of crickets and the howls of owls. I was afraid but couldn’t shout. I struggled and kicked my legs but the hands that gripped them were stronger. I knew I was been carried away; to where, by whom, for what purpose? Ritualists? Human traffickers?

The dormitory door was unlatched quietly, and the door hinges didn’t protest nor cringe. I felt the cold air over my body as my pajamas eased out of my body. My heart raced and bumped like a bike on a bumpy road. Am I about to be slaughtered? God don’t let them kill me?

Prayers refused to exit from my gagged-mouth; now stuffed and sealed with my pajamas, I suppose. The faint voices sounded familiar but distant. Could that be Senior Kennedy’s?

“Abeg make I go the first round’, the first voice pleaded.

“No, I go do am quick quick’, the second voice said in hushed but firm tone.

‘E suppose be my turn this time around’, a third voice protested.

In a matter of minutes, they flung me into bent-over position. I felt a hand rub my anal area with an ointment; maybe Vaseline jelly. A stiff object poked through anal orifice like a jagged nail and began to thrust in a sequence of movements.I cringed and let out a cry but couldn’t hear myself.

I felt a current of excruciating pain tinged with pleasure surge through my entire body as the back and forth thrust increased in intensity. I was between heaven and hell and couldn’t figure out what went in and out of me. The only sign that I was alive was the hushed voice that moaned and heaved with each thrust; and the pressure of the hands that gripped my waist and trunk.

The thrusts ceased and the stiff object limped out of me.

“Na my turn now” the other voice said.

“You better be fast before them go catch us oooh!”

Another round of rhythmic thrusts assailed my sore and painful anus for what seemed like eternity. Hot tears seeped out of my sealed eyelids. The pain had become unbearable and I tried to kick and punch at my assailants to no avail. My arms had grown limp and my body, flail.

….…………………………………………..

Someone shook my body vigorously. I managed to open my eyes but saw only a silhouette-like figure bent over me. He shook and shoved me the more.

“This nonsense boy, common wake up jooo! Everybody is getting ready for class and you’re still lying down on your bed like a lazy cow.”

Though I didn’t make a sense of what he said, his voice mocked like Emeka’s; the clown of my class.

“Mummy’s boy, you better stand up before the senior prefect flogs the hell out of your coconut head’’.

Full of mischief, he pinched my forearm and I gave a grunt and twitched in pain.Still uttering no meaningful words, save for the groaning hiss that escaped from my clasped lips, he shook me as he tried to rouse and move my body.

He paused. Two big eyeballs leered at me with dilated pupils. His shrieking scream jagged me back to life.

“Blooooooood!” Emeka shouted.

In a flash, a horde of my dorm mates circled around my bunk to see the blood stain on my bed sheets. Apparently I had fainted along the line and my assailants quietly tucked me back in my bed, and covered me with my swaddling clothes; now stained with blood.

My rumpled pajamas had sucked in the blood like surgical swabs stuck into the sore ends of a sutured wound from a scalpel.As they turned me over to my side, the source of the blood stains no longer could hide like the tummy of a pregnant woman.

They made a quick diagnosis of my condition; a case of sore and bleeding anus in an all-boys secondary school can only point to what we called ‘bone-to-bone’ or ‘ikpo ntu’- translated literally as hammering a nail into an object-; the rape of a junior boy by the senior boys and a rite of passage to a world as dark and sordid as anyone can imagine.

This usually happens when senior students are about rounding up their final exams, targeting boys they want to send to hell.My assailants may’ve even joined to commiserate with me. And even if anyone had known, no one would dare to open up.

Kalu’s case was reported to the Principal but the case died as soon as it was opened; ‘ikpo ntu’ was a necessary evil; an outlet for seething passion and lustful embers lodged in the loins of rabid teenagers whose animal instincts ruled once they enter their moments of heat.

I couldn’t go to class that day and was taken to the dispensary where the matron cleaned me up with disinfectants, before dressing my wounds. Her needles pumped in antibiotics and analgesics into my blood stream.

“God punish those wicked boys, and it will never be well for them’, she cursed.

After the initial shock and all, life in my dorm settled back to its normal pace. And I became one of the butts of the class jokes; a victim of ‘ikpo ntu’ who now belongs to a class of boys that have had an experience that is etched in their memories forever.

A cult of boys who grew up into men overnight. A group of boys whose psyche and sexuality has become transformed. Angry at other men, and abhorrers of women but lustful of some men. A strange world that I found myself….!(To be continued)
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Felix Abrahams is a physiotherapist and poet who lives and works in Abuja and can be reached via email: halal3k@yahoo.cm

Uncle Bros: My Neighbor's Lover Boy Son

2009-09-29T03:19:00.000-07:00

Uncle Bros…My Neighbour’s Lover Boy Son

By Felix Abrahams Obi ………………………

He is only 4-years old but he’s not stopped to baffle us all. He has shown his precocious tendencies way back as a toddler but his brain seem to have aged and matured too soon. Though his name is Emmanuel, my friend’s son and I call each other ‘Uncle Bros’ and he scarcely calls me ‘Uncle Felix’ save when he wants to sound a bit formal. In all fairness, he owns the original copyright of the brand name ‘Uncle Bros’ as it came as an offspring of his creative genius. And no one should bat an eyelid if he displaces and pushes out brand icons like Leke Alder and Charles Otudor out of the branding market anytime soon! Emmanuel’s dad and I have been neighbours in the government estate where we live in Abuja. The apartments are not the classical ‘face-me-I-face –you’ type but have a semblance of it as it was custom-built for the lowest cadre of civil servants. Many of them sold their flats to reap the dividends of Obasanjo’s monetization policy, and used the proceeds to rent far cheaper apartments at the outskirts of the Abuja city centre, while some relocated to nearby Nasarrawa and Niger states respectively. Many of us who are not civil servants have become tenants of to civil servants who bought the apartments from their indigent colleagues. My neighbour grew up in Benin City where I lived in for 3 years during which my crisp and burnished English accent was corrupted with Pidgin English ‘made in Bini’. As an NYSC physiotherapist, my first baptism into Pidgin was in the consulting room when an elderly woman with osteoarthritis of the knee came for treatment. While ‘clerking’ her, I enquired about the nature and characteristics of the pain to help me at a treatment plan. Mama answered, ‘my pikin, ai dey hear am inside’ stretching the phrase for emphasis while pointing her fingers to the source of pain. Confused and flustered, I hid my ignorance under the cloak of professionalism and managed to treat her that day. It was not until I went to the ward to attend to another patient who had necrosis of his hip joint due to sickle-cell anemia that I decoded the phrase. Educated and young, I expected this patient to speak in ‘janded’ English accent when I took his case history. He also blurted out this ‘ai dey hear am inside’, and I had no option than to ask for its meaning. I wondered how on earth one would ‘hear’ pain instead of ‘feel’ it, but in Benin, pain has a voice, and only the victim ‘hears its villainous voice’! By the time my NYSC was over, I dumped my hallowed English for pidgin with its musical undulations. I began to say ‘Bros I dey double hail oh’ etc, when I meet a close friend on the streets of Benin. Since Emmanuel’s dad grew up in Benin, we mutually call each other ‘Bros’ and being his ‘Uncle’, this kid’s genius reckoned that I should be called ‘Uncle Bros’ and the name has stuck with us all, and that’s what his parents call me as well. When he wants to strum my guitar, he’d yell at his dad to take him to ‘Uncle Bros’ house’. The pidgin bug hasn’t stung him yet but his grammatical theatrics only goes show that it’s only a matter of time before the ‘pidgin gene’ matures and becomes expressive. Over year ago, little ‘Uncle Bros’ used to regale us with his homilies and displays as a ‘tele-evangelist and pastor’ in the mould of Chris Oyakhilome, whom he saw as his mentor. Uncle Bros would mount the ‘podium’- his mom’s kitchen stool- to preach to us, with his Bible stuck in his armpit. Clad in his stripped suit with knotted tie, Uncle Bros would convert his dad’s phone charger into a microphone to gleefully declare and echo pastor Chris’ popular refrain, ‘’So mightily grew the word of God and it prevailed’. Uncle Bros toga as the kid pastor received a knock when he started nursery school couple of months back. He has caught the attention of a little girl, Sandra, and he no longer mounts the podium to preach again like a backslidden pastor whose soiled linen has been washed in the public. I wonder why he chuckles and giggles whenever Sandra is mentioned in his house. He shocked my auntie and me when he tried to impress her 5-years old daughter when they visited me last year. He painted the scene of a proud peacock trying to impress a female mate for when he heard that a little girl was in my house, he dropped everything that caught his attention and dashed into my apartment with breath-taking speed! He boasted to my auntie and daughter that his mom is now his wife, and that when he grows up, he’d take her to the church and ‘do wedding’ with her. With mouth ajar, she listened as Uncle Bros strutted around to impress and boast about his mom, ostensibly to impress my auntie’s daughter I suppose. He brandished his toy gun and boasted that he’d shoot even the Policemen and soldiers, and will arrest us (offenders) and put us in prison. My auntie’s witty and impressionable daughter spurned his overtures and looked the other way until Uncle Bros went back to his parent’s apartment. Uncle Bros and his dad are in for a never-ending romantic contest and the object of the conquest is his mom-wife! Each time his dad kisses the mom , he’d yell at his dad to “leave my wife alone’’ and his face gets furrowed with the mischievous smiles each time his mom beckons, “come and kiss mommy’’. And whenever he refuses to eat his ‘Indomie noodles’ like he always does, his mom will threaten, “I won’t marry you again’, only for him to become apologetically patronizing. After forcing down the food down his guts and topping it with water he’s plead, ‘Mommy please marry me you hear…!” Uncle Bros squealed recently after a trip to Wonderland –Abuja’s most popular amusement centre-with his mom. His mom’s phobia for heights took a hold of her when they both entered one of the formular-1cars that raced like legendary Michael across a tortuous rail track suspended from the ground at an elevated height of over 4 meters. Uncle Bros giggled and had fun at the expense of his mom who screamed and cried hysterically as the car made its breath-taking stunts above the earth’s surface. To cover and conceal her shame, Uncle Bros and his mom made a pact to not tell anyone about the incident. After all, lovers have secrets that no one else is permitted to be privvy to…hence ‘no kiss and tell’ is permitted by lovers! Having not seen my neighbour for weeks, I walked over to his apartment to see them. As usual, he greeted me with ‘Bros I hail oooh’ and no sooner had I reclined on the sofa than Uncle Bros walked up to me to ‘kiss and tell’ on his mom, who was sitting nearby. To his mum’s chagrin, he chuckled loudly as he told me how his mom screamed out of fear as they rode in the car at the amusement park the previous day. Like most lover boys are wont to do to the objects of their romantic adventures and conquests, Uncle Bros reneged on his vow to not ‘kiss and tell’. After another threat of divorce, he went down on his knees to apologize and plead with his mom to welcome him back and ‘marry him’ again. His dad usually is the chief audience who watches helplessly as this Oedipus complex soap opera plays itself out daily under the roof of a house he had bought over from the government as a civil servant from his savings. I wonder why little boys are ‘jealously in love’ with their mothers! ........................................................ Felix Abrahams Obi is a writer based in Abuja and can be reached via halal3k@yahoo.com

Scribblings of a Hungry Soul

2009-07-28T02:35:00.000-07:00

In quietness I draw near to your heart
Let your streams of fire light me up
Cause a stirring, a diffusion of hot springs
To thaw my heart towards you, my God

Lead me to the oasis of your WORD
And feed me till every cell in me
Is filled with the essence of you, dear Lord
And let your Word become as honey to my soul
That I may long for it endlessly

Dear Lord, keep my heart glued to you
For I don’t want to stray away again from you
Keep my mind from that endless quest
In search of knowledge outside you
And let me anchor my faith in you
No matter where hope leaves me behind

(Abuja, 5: 30 am, 20th April 2009)

-Excerpted from my 2009 Devotional Journal: Scribblings of a Hungry Heart-

24th July 2009: Birthday Musings

2009-07-24T06:51:00.001-07:00

WELLSPRINGS NEWSLETTER; JULY/AUGUST 2009
A Publication of Masters Pen Media, Abuja Nigeria
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Editorial Note.

Dear friends,
After a long hiatus, I am back again to share with you this current edition of WELLSPRINGS newsletter. I was so touched by a couple of readers in my mailing list who got worried about my prolonged silence and wanted to know why I stopped writing. I wish I could give a ready-made answer but all I can say is that even though I’d kept quiet, the burden to write still lurked somewhere in the recesses of my soul but somehow there just was no flow.

I guess God was taking me through a phase in my life and ministry of writing where I needed to step back and learn some very important lessons about Him and about life in general. This journey has taken me through valleys and cliffs and has helped to revalidate and consolidate my faith and belief in God. It is with joy that I feel privileged to be able to share with you my thoughts through this medium and am humbled by all the show of love from those readers who tried to get in touch and urged me to keep on writing.

Today, July 24th is my birthday and I wish to bless God for the grace, favor, mercy and love that He has been investing in my life. I have this deep sense that great years of joy and fulfillment are ahead of me. And I wish to thank friends who have been calling in, sending texts and dropping messages on facebook to wish me a happy birthday.

May God bless you all and may you find yourself in the centre of His plans and purposes for your lives.

Shalom and God bless!

Your brother and friend,
Felix Abrahams Obi
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1. IS IT ALL ABOUT YOU OR HIM?
In an unguarded moment, I had made an uncouth statement about a dear friend that harmed and damaged a relationship I had treasured over the years. I felt sad over the encounter and efforts to redeem the situation had hit the walls and in a bid to see what relics I can recover, I went to God in prayer, pouring my heart to him while acknowledging my mistakes in deep remorse. In the quietness of heart, it was as though God made me realize that the friendship was dealt a lethal blow because I brought my own selfish interests to the fore over and above the feelings and sensibilities of the other person, and in the process, bruised the ego of a cherished friend. It came as a deep rebuke…and the words resounded in my inner man: ‘’Is it all about ME (God) or just you?” and no one told me to confess my failures to God and asked him to heal my friend’s heart.

A few years ago, the worship atmosphere in Christian churches across the nations changed and a new era was heralded. These songs that helped people navigate into God’s presence had received a boost through the ministry of the great psalmist of our generation, Michael W. Smith. His songs resonated in churches and fellowship meetings and he became a household name among Pentecostal Christians. One of the songs that impacted so many goes this way:

When the music fades, and all is stripped away, and I simply come…
Longing just to bring, something that is of worth
That will bless your heart
I’ll give you more than a song
For a song in itself is not what you’ve required
You search much deeper within
Through the way things appear
You’re looking into my heart
Am coming back to the heart of worship
‘Cause it’s all about you, it’s all about You, Jesus
I’m sorry Lord for the thing I’ve made it
For it’s all about you, it’s all about You, Jesus
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It was one of those songs that easily would prize out tears from the eyes of many a Christian. But beyond all the tears and lifting up of holy hands, we’ve become a generation that have become so involutedly selfish that is characterized by utter selfishness. We are always seeking to have our own way in almost everything. When we negotiate, we press the other party till they compromise without us having to yield any grounds. Rather than a win-win attitude, we press for a winner takes is all situation, not minding how the other party feels at the end.

I believe that God is now looking for Christians who would exit the confines of self and begin to carry the weightier burden of the kingdom. God is seeking for intercessors-men and women who will stand in the gap for the rest of humanity, even at the expense or risk of incurring personal losses. You can only carry the burden of others only when you come to the point where your personal needs become of less significance relative to the needs of others.

From biblical and contemporary history, it’s been documented that those who stand out in the secular, business and religious realm are men and women who think less of themselves and more about the needs, and welfare of others. Moses risked his life in an attempt to rescue a Jew from the oppression of Egyptian task masters, and was banished in exile. God saw that and when the Jews cried to God for a deliverer, Moses who felt the least qualified was chosen by God because he had a burden for others.
David was a selfless and caring shepherd boy who risked his life for the sake of his parent’s flock…he fought the wolves and lions that attacked the sheep. Little wonder he dared Goliath because he translated and expressed the same selfless love towards Israelites when they were under the siege by enemy forces.

But beyond carrying the burden of God’s people as their shepherd, there was an additional trait that made David standard out from generations before and after him- he was consumed by a desire to please God. It was said of David that he found favor in god’s sight because he sought for a dwelling place for the God of Jacob (Acts 7:44-50). He was the man after God’s own heart!

We’ve ‘worshipped’ God enough in our churches but beyond the lifting up of hands and swaying to the soft and smooth rhythms of the ‘praise and worship songs’ on Sundays and during midweek services, God wants us to live a lifestyle of worship…an orientation beyond singing of songs and feeling good in church. He wants us to begin to care about the spiritual, social and moral climate of our generation, which is further dipping into depravity as the years roll by because we now live more for ourselves than for others.

When was the last time you went out of your way to do something for others without a desire to be acknowledged by the recipients? When was the last time you prayed for that friend whose marriage was is going through a major crisis? When was the last time you did a good deed for others…and if you did, was it to get a reward or did you see yourself as an answer to someone’s cry to God for help?

We need to start thinking differently all over again and start carrying the burden of others and laying them before God like the intercessors that we are, as well as doing practical things that would uplift the burden of others. This requires a paradigm shift from that position where we thought more of ourselves and our needs to a new position where we become sensitive to the needs of others and become God’s vessels of grace and help. It’s only from the point that we can access and be able to wield power from heaven to impact others on the behalf of God.

Selflessness is too strong to yield and die that easily. A mere wish to become selfless and others-centered will never be realized except at the place of prayer. It requires a trip to the lonely Garden of Gethsemane where our personal needs and will contend with God’s plans and purposes for humanity till ‘self ‘ is broken to the point of capitulation and near subjugation that we can cry from that place of helplessness saying; ‘Not my will, but yours, oh Lord”. It was at that place that Jesus Christ gave up his personal human rights and gave up every dream. From that point he didn’t look back till he died on the cross…and we now walk the streets with stickers and emblems that brandish our different brands of Christianity. How undignifying that we so forget how someone had paid the prize for us…and we think it so absurd to bother about the guy next door!

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“I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd gives His life for the sheep. But the hireling…watches as the wolf catches the sheep and scatters them.”(John 10: 11-12)

“Greater love has no one than this, than to lay one’s life for his friends. You are My friends if you do whatever I command you.” (John 15: 13-14)

“By this we know love, because he laid down His life for us. And we also ought to lay down our lives for the brethren. But whoever has this world’s goods, and sees his brother in need, and shuts up his heart from him, how does the love of God abide with him?”(1 John3: 23)
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2. THE HEART OF A SAINT
As a young boy growing up in the east, I read the biography of , and was told the glowing stories of numerous Catholic saints that were celebrated as patron saints almost on a daily basis. A saint, such a hallowed word that paints the picture of a halo over the head of a man or woman who lived an extraordinary life that had earned the respect of the church, after the due process of canonization.

But I was a bit bothered as I had no Nigerian saint to call a patron saint for so many years until the cheery news came that Vatican had recognized a Nigerian, Rev. Fr. Iwene Tansi of Onitsha as a saint after successfully scaling through the process of beautification and canonization. Now that we had an indigenous saint, my hope of becoming a saint became more realistic I had thought hence had no need again to become a Monk locked up in eternal meditation in a monastery.

As a child, monkhood for me was the way to go to become a saint then. But as a spiritually enlightened adult, now I know better to not see a saint in classical parlance for every child of God, who has duly been certified as a sinner, then acquitted of sin and its consequences becomes qualified to adopt the title of a “saint’’ with or without official canonization. I walk tall and with a swagger because I can now be called a saint due to what Jesus Christ had accomplished on the Cross for all of humanity.

But beyond the title, what does the heart of a saint look like and how can we be certain we are saints indeed without the angels having to scan us with lie detectors? Why do experts in crime investigations focus a lot on our facial expressions and words to know if we’re telling a lie or not?

Somehow there is a connection between the expressions on our faces and the current state of our heart and our words have same relationship with our hearts. And in order to check if we truly are saints and living the lives worthy and becoming of saints, we need a trip into the inner recesses of our hearts. For this journey to be fruitful we need to be brutally honest with ourselves for more often than not, our hearts play a trick on us that we unwittingly slip into self-deception which is one dreaded enemy that hardly gives up easily, and denies us great blessings.

This journey requires self-criticism and intellectual honesty so that we can dare to probe and ask ourselves questions that have the power to unmask self-deception which harbors our hypocrisy, spiritual decay, moral corruption and errors. Like the respected Jewish rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel said in his spiritual classic, “God in Search of Man”, ‘we may have to realize that religion is liable to distortion from without and from corruption from within.

Like the craftsman who over and again recalibrates his products to ensure they meet the stipulated standards, we need to constantly scan our hearts for what this rabbi calls ‘distortion and corruption’. Within our hearts, the truth of God’s word is constantly under the siege of spiritual corruption since our human nature easily slump into decay by default, while the external environment is so harsh and threatens to distort the truth of God’s word within our hearts.

That is why the Wise Father admonished his son, “Let your heart retain my words; Keep my commands and live. Get wisdom! Get understanding! Do not forget, nor turn away from the words of my mouth. Do not forsake her, and she will preserve you; Love her, and she will keep you…My son give attention to my words, incline your ear to my sayings, keep them in the midst of your heart; for they are life to those that find them, and health to all their flesh. Keep your heart with all diligence, for out it springs the issues of life.”(Prov. 4: 4-7, 20-23).

David the ‘man after God’s heart’ faced a rude shock when he allowed the pleasurable thoughts of his heart to stray a little till he slipped from a man of moral strength to one that had a tryst with another man’s wife, and the snow ball effect rocked his family life and left a scar that history had not deleted yet. He then realized the need for searching and probing his heart, and when he looked deeper within, what he saw embarrassed him that he had to cry out to God saying “Behold You desire truth in the inward parts and in the hidden part, You will make me to know wisdom…Create in me a clean heart, O God and renew a steadfast spirit within me.”(Psalm 51: 6-10).

The heart of a saint when dissected would reveal how much of God’s word have been stored in them for circulation to the cells and systems that constitute our spiritual edifice within. The heart of a saint will not only show how much he loves God, it will also show an index of his fear and reverence for God…for we can love God deeply and yet swim in sin! The heart of the saint will reveal compartments where his valuables are stored but their worth depends on the focus of the saint…temporal or of eternal value?

In Psalm 1, we are presented with the resume of a righteous man; the saints of old from whom we can learn the same principles: he delights in the law of God, he ignores and denigrates the company and counsel of the ungodly. As New Testament Christians, the measuring mark has been so raised that we have no liberty to slack for a moment as we’re contending constantly with the unfriendly and ungodly culture and system where we live and work. Hence we need to constantly check if we are still in the faith before we slip into spiritual depravity with no evidence that we are saints and people that reflect God’s power and glory to the world outside the walls of the church.

www.nuggetz4life.blogspot.com

A FASHIONABLE CHRISTAFARIAN vs RASTAFARIAN

2009-07-07T09:07:00.000-07:00

A FASHIONABLE CHRISTAFARIAN vs RASTAFARIAN
By ©Felix Abrahams Obi

The Christmas mood was palpable and the cold harmattan breeze had stripped the large Iroko at my kindred’s play ground tree to the bare, and it was the oldest in my village. My big cousin had arrived from Lagos and we waited with batted breath for the unzipping of his big box which was loaded with goodies from the city. As I stripped my pack open, my eyes beheld a blue ‘jeams’ trouser as we kids called it then. It was my very first jean trousers; not really made of jean material but velvet which we called ‘velvetine’ and what else would you expect of a naïve village boy. My treasured ‘jeams’ trouser made its debut on was Christmas day and was worn only on Sundays till it faded. And I still have a childhood picture of my ‘jeams’ that reminds me of the good’ol days.
In secondary school I became fascinated by the socially conscious reggae music of Rastafarians; who were the true custodians of jean trousers, freedom fighters that rebel against the norm in fashion. They wore rugged jean trousers that were hardly washed that contrasted well with their dreadlocks that signed of their rebellion against ‘them Babylonian system’ that oppressed us the children of Jah that live in Zion. I dreamt of hanging my box guitar across shoulders, decked in jeans and bouncing like a true Rasta man.
But I was a church boy, who didn’t have the nerves to be rebel like Rastafarians, and the little courage in me was snuffed out in med school where I was literally banned from wearing jean trousers, and any idea of growing a dreadlock became embalmed and completely dissected like the cadaver we toyed with during anatomy classes. The Babylonian system that my Rastafarian mentors hated imposed a dress code on us: Sartorially cut trousers, clean shirts with a tie to match which was hidden under the enshrouding cloak of the white ‘lab coat’ for which medical and paramedical students turned into a respected fashion symbol that stirred admiration in every other student in the university campus.
I found myself in a very conservative campus fellowship that made wearing ‘a shirt and tie’ the dress code for brothers and to add to my woes, wearing the almighty jean trousers was a taboo for the serious-minded ‘brethren’ like us. My childhood dream of wearing my ‘jeams’ and ‘dada hair’ was dealt a devastating blow and I gave up and accepted my fate till I graduated from med school.
But as an intern at UNTH Enugu, I saw a consultant anaesthetician who had very long and aged dreadlocks; the type you’d find only in Jamaica among ‘Kaya’-puffing Rastafarians. He was a true rebel; had no ties and jean trousers were his companions. I was too stunned to not notice him. So when I started work as a physiotherapist National Orthopaedic Hospital Igbobi Lagos-with the famed ‘Okada Ward’- I began to dress down by wearing jean trousers on Fridays like a tamed rebel at heart that I was. At least a plastic surgeon I admired so much was always on jean trousers but he had no dreadlocks! So was not my ideal fashionista mentor…so the search continued!
My salvation came years later when I met a man I truly admired- Ben Okafor. He had long dreadlocks, strummed his acoustic guitar dexterously and boy, he usually wore rugged jean trousers, and was not even a Rastafarian, and didn’t puff nor smoke ‘ganga’ from a drum with his band. He spoke no patois and his reggae music was as avant garde as any root rock reggae vibes from Jamaican. Though ‘ Christafarian’ because he is a professed Christian, the vicar of a church in England where he once played a gig and gave a sermon on spiritual revival had asked the congregation to ‘pray’ for Ben ‘to cast out demons from his dreadlocked hair’. But on the day he played a gig in my church in Lagos, rather than see demons flying off his dreads, streams of tears flowed from his eyes as he urged humanity to love one another with God’s kind of God. That Sunday, dreadlocked guys felt at home in the church…!
But this redemption was transient. Few weeks afterwards, I left my hospital work as a physiotherapist and became a health program officer with an international donor agency. The dress code so changed that to look formal and appropriately-dressed for the endless meetings between the ‘government and donor partners’ and the numerous diplomatic dinners, I had to revert to wearing suit which overlaid my shirt and tie. What bondage. Though we do dress down in the public health and development field, the sartorial codes of med school still have a hold on so many of us that we are yet to break away from its bondage.
I still wonder what my oyinbo boss will do on a typical Monday morning when I’d resume for work wearing a pair of rugged jean trousers, with my now growing afro hair locked overnight into dreadlocks. Some days I will suit come to work clad in designers’ suits, sporting a well-starched TM Lewin shirt and a silky Gucci tie, with my then grown –up and matured dreadlocks cuddling my shoulders freely. I seem to hear a silent but confident voice within saying ‘nothing dey happen’ to douse any fears that my job will still be intact as no dress code was enshrined in the offer letter and contractual papers that I signed when I took up the appointment.
Not too long ago, one of the ‘brethren’ ran into one of the ‘jim jim’ brothers who had banned brothers from wearing jean trousers in the campus fellowship at Mile 2 bus stop. This ‘broda in da lord’ had shed the cloak of ‘shirt and tie’ and was clad in a pair of rugged jean trousers, and a branded T-Shirt, with his silver bling bling hanging freely over his neck. He had locked his hair and the dreads were strutting out like fashionable buds that will grow into mature seeds that will harvest longer dreadlocks in the coming months. He’s no Rastafarian, he has no acoustic guitar nor does he smoke a pipe of weed!
(Felix Abrahams Obi is a physiotherapist and writer based in Abuja)
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OBI,Felix Chukwudi Abrahams jnr

....................
Health Expert
Japan International Cooperation Agency
Third Floor,Oakland Centre
Aguiyi Ironsi Street
Maitama, Abuja
Nigeria
halal3k@yahoo.com
mobile: 080 3318 7876

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WHEN A WOMAN LOVES A MAN.....!!!

2009-07-07T08:16:00.000-07:00

I wrote this piece about 2 years ago and have been toying with the idea of developing this idea into a book manuscript. So I'm pushing it out into the public domain for discussion and ideas on how I can rework this into a book.Is it worth all the effort or should I just leave it as just an article?Any ideas, critques, condemnation, criticisms whatever?I wait with batted breath for your responses!

( Originally published on http://www.nigeriansinamerica.com/articles/1385/1/When-A-Woman-Loves-A-Man/Page1.html)
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WHEN A WOMAN LOVES A MAN

...by ©Felix Abrahams Obi
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“There are three things which are too wonderful for me,Yes four which I do not understand:The way of an eagle in the airThe way of a serpent on a rockThe way of a ship in the midst of the seaAnd the way of a man with a maiden” (Proverbs 30:18-19)…………………………………………………………..

Whoever coined that word, love must have thought deeply to have known it’s an all pervasive word. Like they say, “love makes the world go round” and little wonder an ancient sage called Agur (quoted above), could not fathom the mystery surrounding the love between a man and a woman.Agur’s headache bothered on “Man meets Woman”, but the subject of my contemplation for quite some time is rather the mystery of “Woman Meets Man”.

When a man loves a woman, his love sometimes gets tainted and subsumed by his base instincts. He becomes consumed by what he wants out of the relationship over and above the needs of the woman. And once his base interests and desires are satiated at the expense of the woman’s, he smiles at his luck and moves on unperturbed. Rather than have a symbiotic give and take situation, it becomes a winner takes it all scenario.And who ends up hurting? Your guess may be as right as mine. He leaves hurting hearts in his wake most times and the victim usually is, the “woman that he once loved”.

But when a guy loves a woman and the love is unrequited, hell is let lose. He’d mock and deride the object of his love, and God save her soul if he’s not the type that is short tempered. After all, it’s a masculine world though feminists have made some progress in their fight for gender equality.Many a male chauvinist are wont to hit back and quip, “Do you know how many countless men that went the way of Death and Hades because of the women they loved?” I never trained as an attorney and wouldn’t vouchsafe any defense for the male folks.

My little bit is to zero in on how I’ve perceived Daughters of Eve and the little insight I have gained from their version of love, not necessarily contrasted to Adam’s Sons that we are! It’s been a fascinating experience as I thought about the Love a Woman has for a Man: the emotional dynamics, the travails and triumphs, the vagaries and mysteries, the joys and the pains etc!

Ego became engaged as a teenager to Emeka, the President of her Youth Fellowship in church. Upon entering the university, she realized she had been naïve about her decision, but she hung on till after graduation. She couldn’t continue anymore and her fiancé unleashed his emotional armory against her. It was a major battle for her during her NYSC until she met Jide who became her friend and was a big brother figure to her. Jide was her counselor and confidant with whom she shared her emotional turmoils. He didn’t know he’d so much touched her until it was time for her to go back to base after the NYSC. Upon her request, he came to bid her goodbye. So they chatted and reminisced on the past year. Thereafter he stood up to leave…Ego began to sulk and her tear sac burst as she cried,” Jide will I ever meet a trusted friend like you in Lagos?” She clung unto him like a child that is scared-stiff and wouldn’t let him go. He was stunned to say the least for he had never seen such an unrestrained emotional side of his born again fellowship friend. Their friendship was purely platonic and devoid of romance and all the pecks in it.

Nkiru, the daughter of a rich Ibo business man, and red-capped chief stunned her parents when she opted to marry her heartthrob, Ike, who hailed from a very poor and obscure background. Prior to the wedding, he had lost his bank job and was not a man of means. But she stuck to him at the risk of being disowned by her parents, and reasoned that life would be so bland and loathe-some if she married someone else. She couldn’t literally think of ever falling in love with another man. Rather than a society wedding which her parents dreamt of, she had no other option than a quiet one at the registry. Her mum sneaked out to witness her daughters wedding which had no guests let alone a reception. Her love for Ike triumphed!

Amaka who works with an Oil Company was engaged to Dipo, whom she met in her local church. He was a struggling guy who had no much economic base, but she loved him dearly and was ready to help him achieve his dreams. She introduced him to some of her friends who’re into business and ploughed much of her savings into the business. Soon the fruits began to yield and Dipo became a Lagos Big Boy, riding the latest Porsche car in town. No sooner, his gaze changed, and he lost interest in Amaka. The deed was done and he left Amaka’s heart in shreds when he took the exit door.

Ugochi was a shy teenager when she met Chisom, her elder brother’s friend, whom she had a crush for. They were in Med School while she was in secondary school. She’d blush each time he visits their home, and her heart often missed its beat. She felt what she’s never felt before and she secretly wished he’d know about how she felt about him. Just before she entered the University, Chisom asked her out and the love affair blossomed and being her first, she lost her innocence in the bid to prove her love for him. Now married 4 years down the line to her former coursemate/boyfrien d, she still would not forget Chisom, her first love!

Like Agur the sage, I am still benumbed each time I contemplateon the love women have for men. Why do women love with all their being? Why would a woman who has been cheated by her boyfriend/fiancé , or husband always make excuses for him, while accusing his partner in crime, i.e. the other woman? Why would a young girl date an older man just to make enough money to groom her younger lover? Why would a teenage girl slip out of her parents’ morale walls just to laugh and be cuddle by her boyfriend at the dark alley at night?

Why would a woman laugh over, yet believe all the lies and bragging heroics of her “pauper” boyfriend when a serious-minded guy wants her badly? I am all the more amused than miffed at this “sisters act” which many a woman premiere each time a new guy waltz into her life. She may have been brooding over a failed relationship and promised “not to love another man again”. What with the many heart breaks she had suffered in the hands of guys she thought had loved her deeply.

Without warning, another bloke; tall, handsome, well built and with a soothing baritone voice comes her way. No sooner had he bestrode her path than her heart begins to skip and reel in love again. She throws her 2 or 3-year old resolution aboard and allows the rhythm of love to grip her again. Once subsumed in love, she offers and gives her best as a memento of her love.

Oftentimes, her best is all she’s got; her precious body! She may struggle with guilt feelings but what else would she offer? For her, sex is more than a trip to Pleasure Land; it’s a part of her sacredness hence she gives it to her man at will.While the wait for the engagement ring lingers, she hears of his “exploits” and the news that he’s engaged to another woman, who swept him off his feet. She hopes against hope that her beloved will come back for her riding on his White Horse. She keeps hope alive even as the flickering flames of love whimper towards being extinguished.

And if she loved him so much, she won’t give another man a chance until he slips in the “Mrs. Ring” into the other woman’s left ring finger. She may end up marrying a man whom she never really loved for her love had gone with her ex!The downsides notwithstanding, one of the greatest motivations a guy can experience is the assurance of a woman’s love. It can inspire poems of the avante garde genre. She may hide it as long as she can but her voice, her eyes and actions would betray her no sooner. She may not understand why she picks her phone to call him before she sleeps at night. She laughs at his dry jokes, sends him tender texts and loves to hang out and peer into his riveting eyes. And when he doesn’t reply her calls and texts, she tells herself, “ He must have been too busy at work, or that his wicked boss may be on his neck again”.

But how could men be so clueless!!!She is very religious, resolute and strict and won’t let any guy mess around with her. Her moral codes and bye-laws are etched on the marble of her heart; no hugs, pecks or a lingering touch! No male visitors are allowed beyond 9pm in her apartment. Yet she’d so much relish the company of her man that he would actually sleep over till the next day. Her love for God fights a lost battle with the enthralling love for her man. With him, there is no act or scene with the toga of sin!He may have even ditched her many months back. She had cried and “moved on” with her life. Then someday she bumps into him at a bank. She braces up to forget he ever existed. After her cries at night, she picks up her phone and dials a number. Alas!, it’s the voice of her ex- that bellows across.

She pinches herself again wondering why she blew her cool resolve again. She had sworn not to call him again, but she just did…and it’s not so much of his fault as much as it’s hers. Because she had fought the idea of deleting his number when he dumped her. But would her love for him not fight her?

By weekend, he shows up by her apartment looking contrite and sullen. On bent knees he reels out his flowery regrets and apologies of how he became captive to another woman’s love. He reminds her of the joy and sweet memories of the past they shared together. How they built an enviable relationship that had a future, before tragedy struck. She knew he must be lying but her bowels of love begins to simmer, and soon overwhelms her. Amidst sobs and tears, she welcomes him because she has never loved another man like him, not even those who genuinely loved her…!

This kind of love is one that I am yet to fathom. A love often without reason, save the usual “he’s nice and caring”. A love that gives more than it takes from a man; the object of her love. A love that is patient and believes the best for her man. A love that doubts rumor mongers, and forgives even when the rumor is proven as veritable moral sin against her by her man. The love that a widow has that wont let her marry another man, unlike a widower would. A love that loves, in spite of…

As I reflect on this, I now reckon that in Women did God leave a semblance of His Love for Man. A love that wipes away the goriness of sin, in all its manifestations. A love that gives without measure. A love so re-assuring to not take vengeance against unrequited love….and much more. When love becomes sacrificial and “self imploding” like God’s, then we can attest to the fact that it is divine; not an offspring of mere mortals!It is when a woman loves a man, that we see vestiges of God’s love in action .

For in spite of the frailties and imperfection of human love, God’s love shines in all its sublimity. How could the earth be revolving on its axis with all the evil and injustice perpetrated by man against man, and women against women. With all the volatile hatred that abounds, God’s wrath has not consumed us all. I am as guilty as the nest trap guy or villain.Still, I willingly submit that this kind of “womanic love” has bewildered and overwhelmed my intellectual capacity till date. In surrender…I bow out!

..............................

©Felix Abrahams Obi

www.nuggetz4life.blogspot.com

COBHAMS ASUQUO: AN INTENSE WORSHIP EXPERIENCE WITH A TRUE PSALMIST & GOD FREAK

2009-06-23T04:39:00.000-07:00

AN INTENSE WORSHIP EXPERIENCE WITH COBHAMS ASUQUO- A TRUE PSALMIST & WORSHIPPER OF OUR GENERATIONBy Felix Abrahams ObiI woke up on Sunday, the 21st of June 2009- Fathers’ Day- with great expectation and knowing that in expecting too much from others or a situation, one is setting himself up for deep disappointments when they are not realized. I knew the risks but still left my home expectant. There was this deep longing to make it to this worship meeting from the first day my eyes caught a glimpse of the poster announcing the ‘’Intense Worship with Cobhams Asuquo’’ @ Transcorp Hilton Abuja to be hosted by the Throne Room Parish of RCCG.Hundreds of us were crammed into Lagos Hall this Sunday morning and extra chairs were brought in to take up more spaces, and the foyer outside the hall took care of the overflow of human heads and hearts. Just before the service kicked off, I had reason to receive an important call outside the hall. Behold there was Cobhams exchanging banters with his band and team members. His acoustik guitarist friend and fellow musician, Gbolahan was kind enough to introduce me to Cobhams and we pumped each other’s hands in a warm handshake. ‘Thank you brother Felix’, he offered as I made my way back to the hall.No sooner, he was ushered into the hall with his worship team and after humbly acknowledging the kind compliments and introduction by ‘Auntie Dayo’ of DOXA Digital (Abuja’s and one of Nigeria’s foremost Sound Engineering and Events Company) he set out for the business of worship. His band comprised of two female backup singers/vocalists, two acoustic guitarists, a bass guitarist, his violinist and drummer; and he sat behind the piano with the microphone adjusted to face his mouth. And two laptops for cueing in the songs in sequence completed his team!He began with a charge; that he wouldn’t have us do anything mechanically in God’s presence like it’s often the case in some Christian gathering. He wanted us to be deliberate because he ‘’wanted heaven here’’ and at the end of the intense worship experience we had corporately, any sincere person would attest that we truly experienced the beautiful atmosphere of heaven in that crammed hall.His 1st song and call to worship was ‘Holy Holy Holy, Lord God Almighty’, followed by ‘Make Our Hearts Your Dwelling Home’. The 3rd song titled ‘My Soul Thirsts for You” was written by him in 2005. He said it was a period when he thirsted desperately for God and a time when his spirit literally was patched like when one who has been marooned in a desert, hedged all around by sand dunes with no oasis in sight. Where there’s no water, the throat becomes famished and parched, and that was the feeling he had that period; He was in need of a touch from God!At that time, a lot of things had gone awry in his life, and his car had this funny stench that made him upset. But as he prodded further, he realized that the sense of discontentment he was experiencing was because his soul was thirsty and longed for God desperately. So he wrote this song which should be the heart cry of every true worshipper. How else would you gauge the heart of the writer of a song whose lyrics are loaded with some heart-stirring words like?---------------------------------------------------“Like the grasses need the rainLike the desert needs the rainLike the suckling child needs the milkLike a barren woman needs a childHear my prayer…You’re my shelter, my helperYou hold my anchorLet me hide in you forever My soul thirsts for you...”-----------------------------------------Hands were lifted. Souls were stirred. Hearts of many cried as his soulful voice resonated in worship to God with reckless abandon. As we transited to the 4th song, he told us how he loved the feeling of sound so much and that he used to put his head in between the two speakers of his deck while in secondary school to enjoy and feel the stereo/surround effect of the sounds from the speakers. He had wanted to play his acoustic guitar as the 5th song was cued in, which was popularized by Anthony Evans and Women of Faith whose chorus celebrates Jesus as the Wonderful Rescuer of the souls of men. It was written at a time when he just couldn’t get by in life and had to learn to lay down his burdens at the foot of the cross. It’s about trading our ashes for God’s beauty. He likened God to the One who has a bucket of water at the sidelines of the football pitch of life whom we should run to when tired to have a cup of water to soothe our thirst. But once we gulp the cup however, we just run off and forget that He still has a bucket-full of water waiting for us to come back now and again to refresh our souls. He urged us to recognize that we can’t achieve anything or labor to build a house without the help of God. And did he not tell us to not wrestle with God to save us from the dislocated hip experience and resultant limping gait that Jacob suffered for wrestling with God?The 6th song was written by a friend of his titled ‘Jesus the Son of God, I believe in You” and he yet again regaled us with another true-life story. It was a period in his life when according him, he was ‘Poor, Broke and Homeless’’ and needed a breakthrough for he had no dime then and used to sleep on the bare floor of hundreds of studios across Lagos. Then he would day-dream about having a different kind of studio from the ones he worked and slept in which were very uncomfortable and mediocre. But he was poor and broke! He needed not just to sing or preach about faith but truly believe in God and live the life of faith.He related how as a kid in the army barracks where he grew up, he was playing with a Muslim friend, Saidi , who had shouted “Jesus” when the latter fell off a tree. That incident made him reckon that we often grow up not realizing the power we have access to in the name of Jesus. It was the name of Jesus that the blind Bartimeaus called on that led to his receiving his sight and made him whole. As for him (Cobhams) he hinted that he was already whole and this was not saying it in a euphemical sense! He had achieved a lot by exercising faith in the name of Jesus. While doing some recordings sometime ago in Paris (I guess Asa’s), he got a call from a friend in Lagos that the space for the dream studio he had always wanted to acquire was now available. Problem was that he had no dime to pay the landlord but somehow he believed God will sort him out. Upon his return to Nigeria, he learnt about a job to produce a commercial for a very big brand in Nigeria. Because the figure being offered was too big and beyond his financial experience, he felt he had already lost it even before executing it. After receiving this fat cheque, he paid the landlord for his studio but “waited for him to say the cheque had bounced’’ which never happened. That was one experienced that took his faith to a notch higher and since then, he had exercised faith to do much more than he had ever done before. According to him, faith is like a habit that we develop. Like when a man slaps a woman once, it becomes easier to do it a second time till it becomes a bad habit. Faith he said is developed same way as we exercise fear till it becomes as constant as a lunar cycle. E talked about his mom who had believed that her son, Cobhams though blind, was going to get the best of education even when she didn’t know how nor had the means. And in exercising her faith, she has become one of the happiest moms on earth today for her seemingly ‘blind son’ has become a blessing to millions all over the world!This song was delivered with so much passion as Cobhams sang, “Jesus the son of God, I believe in you. In my darkest hour, you became my light. With your healing arms, you redeemed my sight. And Jesus the son of God, I believe in you…” He became ecstatic and swayed side to side when he came to his most favorite refrain when his voice bellowed; “I believe, yes Lord, I believe, you’re the son of God”. He called Jesus his Hebrew name, ‘Yeshua”; our Redeemer, Savior and Counselor!The 7th song was about righteousness which he defines simply as doing right like obeying traffic laws, not being a litter box and being good and law abiding citizens. He affirmed that Nigerians are a blessed people. We’re all left in stitches when he joked that no English word can correctly translate the word blessing like the Yoruba word for blessing; ‘Ibukun’. To him you have to ‘ibu’ it till its ‘kun’… and the hall resonated with laughter as he tried to translate blessing from English to Yoruba. He made us realise how seemingly ordinary things like a plate of beans and dodo or a cup of cold water can evoke extra-ordinary feelings of pleasure that he sometimes feels like crying. The song titled ‘The World of Ordinary People, living the way God wants it” eulogized the simple things of life that produce extraordinary things. Such ordinary things like a baby drooling on your lovely shirt. It’s about ordinary people like David, Job etc who did extraordinary things. Like an ordinary dream or decision (yes or no) we make today creating extraordinary things tomorrow. Just like every oak tree grows from a small mustard seed. He spoke about family life and that no ordinary father will come back home after 3am, after hanging out with guys.The 8th song was accompanied by his violinist Ernest and he had written it when he lost a dear friend and had tried to console a mutual friend who seemed so inconsolable then. He had exhorted his friend to know that whatever happens, God is still good. But his friend retorted and cried, ‘But it is difficult…” to believe that God is good when things go bad. But this is a lesson Cobhams had come to learn over the years from his personal experience as one who’s been blind. He had tried to achieve a lot of things by sheer hard work and all, but he had come to a point where he said ‘I will worship God, regardless…” even when things don’t come through as expected.He then took us through a medley of two popular songs of worship: ‘You’re all I Want’, and ‘This is the Air I breathe’ followed by ‘Glorious Deliverer” which had an acoustic feel and as he delivered this song, streaks of tears glistened his eyes and trekked out of the corners of his eyes. It was as though the tear sacs had become too engorged that they just had to burst and let go off the tears of worship from a heart that truly loves God passionately. His voice reverberated as he sang this song:-------------------------------------------------------------------Almighty God, Ancient of Days… Strong and Mighty GodBright morning star, beautiful beyond comparePerfect in all your waysYou’re worthy of my praiseI worship you Lord in the beauty of your holinessIn the splendor of your majestyIn the frailty of your son, your salvation for us was doneYou’re God; you’re bigger than what they say you are,You’re God, far more beautiful than they say you are,-------------------------------------------------------------------------At this point we had reached a crescendo in this intense worship experience and Cobhams began to speak passionately about God like a TV evangelist. Having grown up as a Catholic, he had learned to recite prayers like ‘Our Father’, ‘Hail Mary’ etc and it was easy thinking about other things while reciting these prayers. So when he stepped into a charged atmosphere where spirit-filled believers worshipped he felt detached and cut-off. As a skeptic He even felt embarrassed when people spoke in tongues or ‘fell’ under the anointing.He talked about having a deep experience with God which Jesus offers anyone that invites Him into their hearts. To him, one might not be able to know all there is about God, but that doesn’t make the experience of God something that is far-fetched. His voice quaked as he announced it to our hearing that ‘God is real” and that ‘Life outside of Jesus Christ is not worth living at all”. He became apologetic when he turned his attention to those who may doubt the veracity of his claims about God. They might see him as stupid, mentally-deranged or plain serious. He was of the view that it’s ok to be ‘cool’ and be ‘hip’ and not care about God. But he re-echoed Jesus’ warning that anyone who denies the Son of God before men, will receive same treatment by Jesus on the last day at the Judgment seat of God.Gradually a number of people started making their way to answer the altar call, while Cobhams sang about ‘ a fountain that washes away our sins’, and another song that evokes the picture of Jesus standing by and knocking at the door of our heart, seeking to be let in, and that we should not let Him walk away. One of the host pastors joined Cobhams to urge people who want to give their lives to Christ to come to the altar, and many more did…At this point, I felt I’ve had a truly intense worship experience and I stood up to leave for an important assignment. As I pondered over the experience, I realized that much as I love to worship God in church, Cobhams has made me realize once more that worship is more of a lifestyle. The songs he wrote were offspring of the experiences he’d had with God and I wish we have more psalmists like him in the Nigerian church that are not entertainment driven who would take us through corporate worship into God’s very presence.The picture of Cobhams worshipping, singing and playing behind the piano reminds me of my dear friend and psalmist, Segun Gilbert (London-based) whom I’ve long told to organize worship meetings like this…and I trust he’ll someday release a worship album for the good of worship-starved believers like us. And I believe RCCG Throne Room Parish recorded this live-worship and would in due course make the CDs and DVDs available to the wider community of believers.If anyone is in doubt that Cobhams is a God-chaser and Jesus-freak, let me share an excerpt from an interview he earlier granted Hip-Hop World Magazine where he said; “There’s hardly a thing I do. I wake up and I say, God you know what? This is the deal: I don’t know how this is going to happen but it’s your name out there more than mine. Some people say mine but the big picture is your name. So let’s save the situation again. He always does. So quite frankly, I’m not sure I have anything spectacular. I just allow myself to be used and I’m happy…” He says he’s done nothing spectacular yet he boasts of owning world-class studio -www.camp.com.ng- and remains one of Nigeria’s greatest producer, song writer and singer whose fame is global.----------------------------------------------------------------Felix Abrahams Obi is a Physiotherapist and Poet who lives and works in Abuja and can be reached via halal3k@yahoo.com or www.nuggetz4life.blogspot.com

Abraham: My Father!!!

2009-06-22T03:32:00.000-07:00

ABRAHAM, MY FATHER!!!

Another Father’s Day had come and gone. I’d wished you were here to hear it from my mouth that I cherish you for being my father. Though I have no memory of you locked up anywhere in my conscious mind, you’re not and have never been a phantom reality to me. You walked through this world and touched lives long before I knew what living was all about. Abraham, my father, I raise a prayer of thanks to God in honor of you.

It’s funny that you liked to do your stuff in obscurity and was wary of standing before the camera’s lens to pose for a picture. Hence the family album I watched as a kid had lots of pictures of your friends, but not you, and that’s the only ‘beef’ I really seem to have had with you, dad! You made me order Uncle Ikoro, your photographer friend to search through his library/archives of black & white pictures and their negatives just to catch a glimpse of you but after a futile search, he confirmed that you’re just ‘camera-shy’ and took no personal pictures. Could that be the reason why I had no baby pictures? Anyway, good news is that now I have become a camera freak and the beautiful people and scenes around me have not been escaping the clicking shutters of my camera.

Two months ago I went to the village for the interment of your sister-in-law and a middle aged man from Umuihi village whom I scarcely knew, called me aside and asked, “Are you the son of Abraham?”, and I answered with a sense of pride for he had mentioned that you were a kind man who helped him and a couple other kids when he was a primary school boy at St. Joseph’s Primary School Ihitte. He said they usually came to your shop at Isinweke Market to buy exercise books and stuff, and you’d often help those who couldn’t buy due to lack of money. I can’t count the number of times during my stay in the village as a kid and subsequent visits as an adult to the village when folks I hardly knew would ‘accost’ me to ask: “Are you the son of Abraham?’’ and they would add, “ He was such a large-hearted, generous ,kind and peace-loving man who cared so much for people.”

Guess what? People have been kind to me on account of your kindness to them. People paid my school fees as a child when mum couldn’t on account of your kindness. Several uncles and relatives stepped into your shoes to be a father figure to me all because of your kindness. I couldn’t even have had a university education if not that someone you had been kind to, took up the responsibility to see me through the university and has remained a true father ever since. You never knew you’d leave too early and now your kindness has been reciprocated in my life, and often times am baffled at the show of love and kindness I receive from even strangers. Could they be the fruits of the seeds you’d sown way back?

Was kindness a gene you inherited and replicated in your offspring? Sometimes I feel like being mean and heartless to people I meet but something always thaws my heart, and I wonder if that was a prayer you’d prayed. I wonder what it is that you did to my mom…yes your only wife; that made her stay stuck with you when she’d the advantage of age and gracefulness to win the heart of another man long after you’re gone. She once said to me; ‘My son, no other man could ever love me like Abraham your father did!” What did you really do to stir such commitment and loyalty from a woman you left behind with such enormous responsibilities of raising your 3 kids? She said it was your dream that I become educated rather than go to learn a trade like it was for most kids who lost their dads early in the village. I wish you’d know now that I am not just an educated man; I’ve become a man of letters; a wordsmith and troubadour of sorts, who trade in words that now travel to people in far-removed cultures and lands through the internet!

You know what father; I once wrote a poem for you when I began to craft words into poems. It was an ode and I wished I could find a way to send them across to the celestial beyond where I hope you’re resting in the bosom of The Father of all flesh and spirits. I poured my heart to tell you how much you meant to me, and that I was proud to be your son. My only regret was that I didn’t really get to know you since you left too early for me to recall your picture or how your voice sounded. But everyone who knew you had so much to say and tell me about you.

You know my best childhood friend calls me ‘Nwa Abraham’ and you can imagine how tickling a feeling it evokes in me each time, and he has called me “Nwa Abraham” for years now. I’ve known so many other kids and grown-up men who hardly could say anything complimentary about their dads and their dads are even alive today. Though you’ve been gone for over 30years, I’ve not ceased to say am honored to be your son, and that your genes run deeply in me.

I have just a little secret I wanted to whisper in your ears but I hope it won’t make you green with envy though. You know what? Over a decade ago, my lips could hardly articulate the letters that combine to form the word ‘father’ because I wasn’t used to calling anyone ‘My father” as a kid. So you can imagine how funny and weird in the mouth it would be for a full-blooded adult like me to call anyone father. Though my great uncles filled your slot and disciplined me when I erred and instilled in me the sense of right and wrong, I still didn’t call them ‘Papa’ nevertheless.

Anyway, I once had an unimaginable experience that opened up my heart to the concept of fatherhood in your absence. Somehow God adopted me to become his own son when I decided to believe in the redemptive work of Jesus Christ. It was a long and chequered journey before my mind and heart were conquered by the reality of God’s love for me. The first time I tried to call God ‘Father’, my lips sort of felt clumsy and it just didn’t make any sense. But with time, I have come to really know that Almighty God is actually ‘My Father’ though in heaven and I didn’t even know all along that He was the one who sent all the lovely people that cared for me in your stead.

I didn’t know He’s the ‘Father of the fatherless’ until my heart came to appreciate that He’s always been there even when you’re there. Shebi you no go vex say I been dey call Papa God, ‘My Father’? Him na correct papa: ‘confirm’ like my brothers wey dey sell 4 Idumota will say to a customer to prove the genuineness of their product!

One last thing, I adopted your name Abraham as one of my official first names in my international passport. And because am now linked to Abraham the patriarch and father of faith, I decided to add an ‘S’ to your name to accommodate this double paternal and spiritual heritages that I have. So you’d see that I am called ‘Abrahams’ and that tells you I’m proud of you. I want to retain and perpetuate your name and what you stood for, and I am happy to be your son, and hope years to come, generations that will follow your lineage will be called a truly Blessed People. Happy 2009 Father’s day Dad-in-Celestial-Diaspora!

Your son,
Felix-Abrahams Chukwudi Obi
www.nuggetz4life.blogspot.com

God in Search of Man...is more than just a wish!

2009-05-26T09:13:00.000-07:00

GOD IN SEARCH OF MAN…IS NOW MORE THAN A WISH!

I have met so many people in my life, and many have left indelible marks that are like etched imprints in my heart. But these people are not my significant others, friends or family members joined by a filial bond. Rather, these have been men and women who I’m yet to meet face-to-face and may not possibly meet in life. Many others have tidied up their activities on earth long before I was born. Some were not popular and the media didn’t haunt and scavenge their closet for news. In short, they lived their lives as quietly as they left…but the world has remained abuzz for their sake.

A close friend, who’s so resolute and decisive with making choices once told me how as a kid, he devoured materials about Alexander the Great such that he grew up to pattern his life to be another Great Man, and he’s at the moment broken artistic frontiers and operates from a high intellectual pedestal that is far from the mundane and commonplace. Books…were his earliest companions, and through books, he visited several countries without having to buy a world-traveler class of air tickets.

As a kid too, I got into reading my school books…then books took over me that at some point I became a bookaholic, but not the nerdy type with thick eye glasses. Just normal eyes that peer at the black dots that span the length and breath of a roll of white papers bound together…books!

The first time I made about N50 as a teenager, I used all to buy a text book, and as a university student, I used my pocket money to buy my first study bible when I began to see the rich treasures lodged in the belly of the sacred scriptures. And as a corper, I’d a close ‘bookish friend’ with whom I visited bookshops in Benin City to buy books once we received our paltry monthly stipend -‘allawi’! His fiancée knew about our ‘waywardness’ and would caution him on the unparalleled expenses (spelt investments) he made on/in books.

It was him that introduced me to the songs of Michael Card (www.michaelcard.com) -one of America’s most-gifted Christian song-writer, singer, author, multi-instrumentalist and bible scholar. From listening to his deeply reflective and insightful songs, I started yearning to read one of his books. About 4 years ago, my niece in America sent me a sample of his books and after the first bite, I began to long for more and have so far read almost all the books he’d written and a lot of his music albums courtesy of my beloved niece!

His devotional poetry and songs in no time began to influence my own devotional writings that I feel no embarrassment when anyone tags me as a ‘religious writer’ as I’m one by divine default! Once in a while, I do pop into Michael Card’s website to check him out. And about 2 weeks ago, I was on his site again, and decided to check out his ‘reading list’ and was not amazed that this guy who teaches astronomy at a college has such a collection of classic works (http://www.michaelcard.com/readinglist.html). Since I was at that time trying to revive my prayer life, I decided to know what book he’d recommend as best read on prayer. His all time best on prayer turned out to be Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel’s book ‘GOD IN SEARCH OF MAN”.

I have always loved rabbis and had always wished to be taught about God from the perspective of a rabbi. Since the rabbi I respect so much, Yeshua Hamashea (Jesus Christ) didn’t get to write a book, I was eager to read a book by a rabbi like Heschel whose interests in social gospel and unshakable belief in the existence of God marked him out. When he matched in solidarity with Martin Luther King Jr. to Washington during the Civil Rights campaigns, he commented that ‘his legs prayed’ during the match. How could a Jewish rabbi fight the same cause with a black Christian preacher?

In one of my profile posts on facebook, I mentioned that I am really in search of this rabbi’s book. A few friends sent me the link and a new facebook poetess friend, Uju Anokwute offered to order the book for me if I wanted it. And just while I was working out that, a big brother I respect so much, Femi Blaize sent a note to inform me that he’d already bought the book for me.

I was wowed and had to inform Uju to not buy a copy anymore. And after Sunday service in my church in Abuja last Sunday, May 17th 2009, Uncle Femi Blaize dropped the book into my hands…and my heart glowed with joy and mirth. Deep in my heart, I was effusive with thanks to him and to God for making a wish, turn into a book!

And I learnt a lesson…that a wish can take up flesh and become your reality. Hence I’m now careful about speaking aloud my wishes for they can become reality overnight without my assistance, labour or participation.

Once King David casually told to his aides that he was very thirsty and in need of a drink, and without his consent, these guys put their lives in the harm’s way; broke through enemy lines to just fetch a can of water for David. When these guys made their way back, their swords were stained with blood after fighting off their opponents.

David was so overwhelmed that his men went out of their way to meet just a ‘wish’, he decided to not drink the water again since these men could’ve been killed for his sake. To him, the jar of water was more of the ‘jar of men’s blood’ so he decided to pour it out as a libation to God for his men had sacrificed their lives to meet a wish!

So this is thanking Uncle Femi Blaize…and Uju Anokwute for sacrificing to meet a wish that I casually expressed. God bless you plenty...and may all your wishes turn into ‘met needs’ not just ‘felt needs’. May your prayers become angelic assignments that must be met with urgency!

God bless! Shalom!

www.nuggetz4life.blogspot.com

A woman dat loved her man!

2009-05-12T01:17:00.000-07:00

“She is not the helplessly-romantic babe who’s been swooned by love, but she had received so much love from her family and friends. And she had one strong desire:

-to meet and love a man who’s been deprived of love-

Now married for 8yrs, tears wrapped his eyes when we talked about her few days ago. She’s his greatest treasure on earth, and he’s put himself in harm’s way so he can at least love her back!”

The Curse of a Beautiful Face

2009-04-29T09:32:00.000-07:00

THE CURSE OF A BEAUTIFUL FACE
By Felix Abrahams Obi

As she stepped into the dusty and colourless NYSC orientation camp, almost everyone noticed her. She and other uncrowned pageants were like rose petals that brightened the dullness of the rugged camp that had made the polished and cultured to live like savage tribes that dwelt in caves. Soldiers tried to drain out the bloody civilian in us through drills, early morning jogs, tasteless meals and all. We wore clothes that were not as cleanly-cut like hedges trimmed with the gardener’s shears.

Guys swooped in on her in a scramble of who’ll be the first to trip her over to subdue her heart. In her innocence, she didn’t know their intent and save for a wise guy who cared and volunteered to be her front and rear guard, their overtures would have tricked her into submission. At the weekly CD activities, the guy stood like a fiery and dare-devil cop around her to ward off guys who appeared like bees ready to lick nectar and also sting with their phallic emblems.

If her beauty was seen as a blessing by her admirers, it was to her an evil foreboding; disguised curse. Her female house mates in the ‘Corpers’ Lodge’ saw her as a threat to their love lives since their boyfriends visited often just to catch a glimpse of her. Their faces sparkled with obvious delight each time their bodies brushed ostensibly against hers. Her face was like a lighthouse that outshone the beauty of her envious female corpers-friends. Her sculpted frame reminded of how far away they are from their idea of being beautiful. But it was not her fault that she’s beautiful and it was not her fault that the sight of her was eliciting envy and jealousy from her female friends. She was wanted by the men for her beauty, and hated for the same reasons by her fellow women.

When she walks into a restaurant, guys wink and their lips whistle in hushed tones at the risk of being spanked by the sneer and dour-mien of their female companions. Men are not wary of asking for her telephone number and gleefully smile when she obliges their request. They easily offer her rides without her asking for one, and feel delighted being in her company. For she’s a happy go-lucky girl and amiable and she’s a good girl with high moral standards. Though not given to flirting, modesty makes her not to spurn and snub every sincere male admirer.

But that’s her greatest challenge and the reasons for the high premium life insurance brokers are willing to charge her. When a guy visits her at home or takes her out on a date, they impulsively want to steal a kiss, touch an ‘untouchable’ place, and would press for more if she doesn’t resist or protest vehemently. It was not their intention to abuse and molest her physically, but they every now and again, fell into that temptation; that weakness that all men are known for.

In her lonely moments, she cries and wonders when men would love her for her person and not for her pretty face and body spec. Every other guy thinks she’s been taken and keeps a distance while she wonders why those guys show interest in her without having the liver to sprint along for the ultimate race of wooing her heart. Her male peers who feel inadequate scorn her as though she’s a plaque, believing she’s as unreachable as the farthest of stars. For she glitters like one, and shimmers like the moon. Those who have the effrontery and guts to ask her out overdo it by trying to over-impress her with their material possessions and expensive gifts.

Those who seem to have the guts and skill to conquer her unfortunately are the men with wedding bands in their ring fingers because they’re already experienced and have garnered wisdom over time. Since they are married to women, they’ve demystified the façade that beauty wears and are emboldened to go for her knowing that she’s as conquerable as the women they now call their wives. But these are not the type of men she longs to woo her…but these are the ones that are not inebriated or overpowered by her pretty face and beautiful frame.

At night she snuggles under the warmth provided by her lonely duvet and blanket, and the cycle goes on like the phases of a yearly weather. Her heart weeps tears that are drained into her being, hoping that someday, some guy will brace up and conquer the fears make him unable to stand boldly before her to tell her how much he loved her person and not her body. She cries because all the men that comes her way, forgets about her brains, her soul, her singing voice…for all they can easily reach for is her beautiful body. And from her statistics, 99% of men she meets and interacts with daily prefer to reach for her body and not her heart. And she wonders if her beauty has made her turn into an object to be acquired, and not a person to be cherished and loved unconditionally.

She ponders daily and wails…Lord why am I so beautifully and fearfully made…amand all she hears like an echo is… “I created you beautiful to express my love for aesthetic beauty and to reflect my glory. So do not despair my daughter, for I make all things beautiful in my time. Do not hate yourself for being beautiful. Do not loathe yourself for getting all the attention…for I did it deliberately and you’re one of those that I took extra time to sculpt their faces and bodies. So accept yourself the way you’re and do not let your beauty get into your head, or make you frustrated by how lustfully men look at you. Just ignore those looks and move on with your life…For it was my choice…!”

Email: halal3k@yahoo.com
www.nuggezt4life.blogspot.com

The Dilemma of Desire, Hope and Passion

2009-04-16T02:05:00.000-07:00

THE DILEMMA OF DESIRE, HOPE and PASSION:

(A Reflection on Easter Monday: 13/04/2009)

By ©Felix Abrahams Obi………………………………………………………………..

It was the dawn of 2009. A call from a very close relative made my phone beep. New Year wishes were exchanged briefly and I dropped the phone to rest. About two minutes later, he called again to ask if all was Ok with me, and I answered in the affirmative. Not satisfied with my ready-made answer, the wife took the phone from him to quiz me further. She’s someone I can easily by default bare my heart to, so she was sure I would open up. They had been bothered that I’d withdrawn into a shell fortified by silence and hardly called or returned anyone’s call for weeks and months. The palpable bubble of enthusiasm that I used to exude had gone like the smoke of a cigar leaving only the stub of indifference and this worried them. Strange enough, I told them ‘’I’m OK” when really I was far away from the plains of lush green meadows of life. I was in a financial mess and acute financial squeeze that choked and shut out joy from my heart!I really had been hit below the belt by the bitter reality of a sick heart that had been broken on account of ‘’hope deferred’’ (Prov. 13:12). The call had come after weeks and months of watching my dreams take flight. I was sulking from the disappointment of not selling my shares when the ‘ovation was loudest’, only to watch helplessly as my ‘invested savings’ of four years drained away into the sewage pit of stock market collapse. Regret, anger and self-loathing waged a war against my psyche- “why did you not sell them off when the shares were their peak? …now you’ve lost all that you saved, and investments!”I was also reeling from the pain and sorrow of being rejected by an organization whose board chairman had earlier told me he’d always desired to work with ‘such an intelligent young man’ like me. He had told me they were head hunting for the position and I was certain I would be the precious bride that will yield to their overtures. After the interview, I waited for the ‘call’ and appointment letter only to find out they had taken someone else. They later told me that they still liked me and my profile and hadn’t closed the door against me. Other job interviews I did afterwards had all ended with the same empty promise of ‘expect our call soon’ -which never came. Mere pep talk and empty promises when all I needed was a change in my status quo!I had hoped for a change, and the realization of a dream, a hope, and a desire for something worth pursuing only to end up at the plains of disappointment and near despair. I experienced in my flesh the despair of Fantine, the single mother and one of the tragic characters on Victor Hugo’s novel ‘Les Miserables’ who was fired for refusing the sexual advances of the foreman. In the musical made from the novel, Fantine hauntingly sang a beautiful song entitled “I Dreamed a Dream’’ which captured the pain of her deferred hope:I had a dream in time gone byWhen hope was high and life worth livingI dreamed that love would never dieI dreamed that God would be forgivingI had a dream my life would beSo different from the hell I’m livingSo different from what it seemedNow life has killed the dream I dreamedLike a friend once said after I failed him that ‘expectation is the mother of disappointments’ and desire is the source of our most noble aspirations and our deepest sorrows. The heart only becomes sick when “hope is deferred ‘but when the desire comes, there is life and joy’’ (Prov. 13:12). We loathe the pain of desire but savour the joy of its consummation and realization. Yet the pain and the sorrow are two faces of the same coin and the chances are evenly distributed when the coin is tossed: head or tail; pain or sorrow! Should we not strive to reach for our goals and desires because of how they make us vulnerable and open to the vagaries of life? Do we dare to love and trust again when our heart had been hurt and shattered by those we had loved and trusted? Should we dare to reach out for our dreams again and pursue our desire for success after licking the wounds failure and deferred hopes had afflicted on us?The fact of life is we are wired by default to keep reaching out for goals and dreams. Eve reached out for the ‘forbidden fruit’ due to an inner longing to desire for more than what the status quo offered. Adam wouldn’t have eaten the fruit from Eve’s hands if he never ever nursed the desire too. She reached for the fruit; and he ate the fruit as proof that he was cautious about expressing his desire. Maybe he feared the undesirable consequences which seemed to have shunned Eve until Adam’s teeth cut through the juicy fruit and ‘his eyes opened’’. Aren’t women often more expressive about their desires than men, who are certain to bottle up their needs and desires? Maybe men are uncannily aware of what Alexander Pope had in mind when he wrote that “desire is the fate of the desiring soul”.Those that are sick and bedridden desire to get well and become healthy again and explore life. The poor desires to become rich, and the lonely and forgotten want to see the sunlight on others faces. The mature single wants to marry and bear children even when menopause threatens to stymie their desires. The heartbroken deeply desires to love and be loved back again. But the snag is that life often connives with the enemies of our dreams to frustrate our efforts. We then take up the attitude of the experimental monkeys that were sprayed with cold water every time they dared to climb the ladder to grab the juicy banana.To handle disappointments and undesirable outcomes that come with pursuing our dreams, we often opt to reduce the size of our desires and reach for less. It could be as a result of repeated blows and punches from failed attempts and crumbled dreams. The labourer loses the hope of becoming the foreman. The office messenger and janitor lose the desire and hope of sitting on the swivel chair of his educated boss. The entrepreneur loses his desire to build a world class organization after the bank reclaims and repossess his assets due to inability to repair the loan. Since failed hopes are often the source of the rivulets of anger that burst forth into raging rivers, the once who experienced shattered dreams takes out his anger on another person. Or he just retracts into the tent of gloom where his depression is stoked and incubated till the remnants of hope are buried.This was the state the disciples of Jesus had found themselves when Jesus Christ was taken away from them and contrary to their belief, their Big Boss became vulnerable in the hands of mundane rulers to the point they squelched life out of his noble soul. The one who gave Simon Peter the hope of becoming a “fisher of men’’ had become so weak and vulnerable that mortal men mockingly crucified the one he knew by revelation to be the ‘ Son of the living God’. The disciples who watched him do ear-stunning miracles now saw the irreconcilable side of Jesus now lost hope and despair took over. Like Peter, they all returned back to the status quo; the point where their dreams came in manageable sizes; a medium size canoe harboring a sizeable fishing net!But on resurrection morning, their hope escaped from the captivity and shackles of despair. The empty tomb was to them evidence that dreams don’t lie even when they seemingly die from the deadly blows of failure. Finally the lessons that Jesus had taught them for three years sank in and anchored deeply in their hearts. The stench they inhaled at Lazarus’ grave made them not truly believe Jesus when he said he was the resurrection and life. He sure raised Lazarus from the death, but they knew how incapable and inadequate they were should they be called upon to raise Jesus from the dead. The reality of the glaring inability, weakness and powerlessness in the face of the death of their powerful Master added to their hopelessness. But all this changed when Jesus appeared in their midst to have a barbecue by the beachside. Hope made a return journey back into their hearts again such that when Jesus ascended into heaven, they didn’t despair a second time. They now believed that they can actually ‘ask, seek and knock’ knowing that they will ‘receive’ and ‘find’ and ‘doors will open’ as they pursued their dreams. This emboldened their hearts and they waited and prayed together in the Upper Room in Jerusalem until they received the power Jesus had promised will imbue them to face the challenges of life. They began to dream again, giving hope to the dreams and expectations of others; the sick, the blind, the disabled, the powerless, the hopeless etc, without cringing at the sight of a ruthless Roman army and a threatened clergy!If life is to be lived, it should be without apology and should be stretched to the limits. That was what Jesus had promised and equally exemplified. He lived life to the full without yielding to limitations. He lived a carefree life that didn’t balk at the negative comments, sneers and jeers of the religious right and political left who tried to compartmentalize and categorize him. He went to parties with ‘sinners, wine bibbers and harlots’ knowing his morality would come under question by his disciples and followers because these groups were people who dared to pursue their dreams, though misplaced. Rather than condemn, he redirected and steered their dreams away from self-gratification to self-realization, so they could fulfill their destinies in life. The Samarian woman at the well with seven husbands finally found an answer to her inner longings that men couldn’t fill. The ‘women caught in the very act’ finally found a reason to not hit the hay again with any other man other than her husband. He made Zacchaeus, the corrupt tax collector find a noble goal of benevolence and integrity that overshadowed all the years of stealing from the poor and rich alike.To desire strongly to achieve a noble goal is the fuel that fires life. Dreams realized cause feelings of pleasure to permeate the whole being. One should not yield to the puritan rebukes of the Stoic or stoop too low to the pleasure-seeking goals of the hedonist either. The goal of living is to find and give life to great and lofty dreams that will lift up the lots of others. The major challenge we have in the pursuit of desire is not whether to yield or suppress it especially when it goes wayward and conflicts with our moral values and known spiritual laws. The true challenge is what to do with desire knowing that human paradox is that often desires run amuck like cancerous cells. The way out is not to kill desire but to seek its healing by appealing to the enlightened and transformed part of us; so our desires can be brought under the obedience of our wills.It was desire to pursue the love of his life that made Jacob labour for 14 years just to marry Rachael. It was desire to punish Goliath for blaspheming God’s name that made young David to confront the giant and experienced warrior with his sling and stones. It was passion for God that made David dance in an undignified way that made his wife to mock him. It was the same desire for God that made him compose poems about his relationship and love for God even when everyone in Israel knew about his adulterous fling with Beersheba. God’s presence was his greatest passion for he had written; “One thing have I desired of the Lord, that will I seek: that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life…for in your presence is fullness of joy”. In other psalms he passionately wrote: “As the deer pants for water brooks, so pants my soul after you, O God. My soul thirsts for the living God…my tears have been my food all day long”. And he would in another psalm cry out, “ O God you are my God, earnestly I seek you, my soul thirsts for you, my body longs for you…” and it’s not a surprise that in the entire Biblical account of levitical priests prophets and kings, no one else was tagged as ‘The man after God’s heart”. Do not kill desire but seek for ways to bring it to the point it becomes a servant to you. Desire, hope and passion are the elements that give life a meaning! Follow your dreams faithfully as they hold the key to fulfilling destiny and meaning in life. Ask successful men and they’d whisper one secret into your ears: Follow your dreams, desires and goals even when they look impossible!(The author is a poet and physiotherapist who lives in Abuja and can be reached via halal3k@yahoo.com or www.nuggetz4life.blogspot.com)

Auntie Obianuju

2009-04-09T00:46:00.000-07:00

AUNTIE OBIANUJU- a short story.
©Felix Abrahams Obi
…………………………………….
Mother said she knew I would be a bundle of joy long before I was born. I had danced and kicked excitedly but gently in her womb. And she said that I did stunts like one of the world’s best swimmers in the vitreous fluid I swam within her. Some weeks before I was born, I had approached the womb in a transverse pose not wanting to leave the comfort of her womb. The matron told her it was a breach presentation. And a miracle was needed before the EDD approaches or the surgeon’s scalpel will slit –through and tear open her overstretched and bloated Tommy before I can be rescued.
That night she waited for dad to start his nightly snoring show before she knelt beside the statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary to make a desperate supplication. Since dad panicked easily like chicks being swooped upon by a vicious hawk, mum hid the matron’s words in her heart. He loved mum enough to not let her undergo a second caesarian section. The one who would have been my senior brother never tasted the freshness of air waft through his nostrils. She said the labor was chequered and prolonged that she exhausted all her breath pushing as the midwives screamed and scolded her. My big brother’s umbilicus would not let him free, knotting round his neck like a goat under reins. My people said such children are evil and accursed by gods and only transient visitors from the land of the spirits.
Dr. Njoku did a quick CS to bring him out, but he refused to cry. Matron Ogoke turned my could-have-been brother’s head upside down; shook him vigorously, sucked his mouth and nose with a suction pump, and nudged his chest to no avail. His arms were flail, his chest flat and motionless like one with no nuts. He snubbed their overtures and did not cry or suckle the colostrums milk reserved for him. It was mother’s first full term pregnancy. She had longed to suckle and feed her babies with the milk of kindness expressed in love.
Matron Ogoke felt helpless and beads of sweat dotted her creased face. She cast a piteous look at my mom whose tears had mingled with the beads of sweat that strolled down the furrows of sorrow on her sculpted face. Her doubts, worries and fears had refused to lie to her like spam mails. That assured her that my senior brother would remain a spirit forever floating and looking for a body to berth in … to be born after me maybe. He was born before me, and also died before I was born. A still birth also came after the travails of labor like the one that heralded me. The placenta was also evacuated but was put in the same carton that housed my brothers still, dead and cold body. Daddy refused to see what it looked like for he feared ghosts and ghostly nightmares haunted him mum had said. Like other children who died prematurely, they buried him in an unmarked and shallow grave somewhere mum did not tell me. She said she did not know and will break into tears each time she retold his story. She will wail in hushed tone; “nwam oma” rest in peace”. He was her first harvest that could not be staked in the barn. She loved him even in death.
Mummy prayed with her rosary beads every morning and night. She and daddy went to morning mass at St. Finbarr’s Parish before he resumed at his office at the Ministry of Health in my state. Mummy was a workaholic who had no office like daddy but daddy opened a shop for her at the Umuahia main market to console her. To keep her busy mind, hands and legs engaged and distracted. It was a provision store full of household goods and articles. She also sold beer; Golden Guinea lager beer and Eagle Stout. The smooth and classy Star lager beer; small and big stout; even 33 larger beer from Awomama, near Owerri. Men drank beer, stout and other hot drinks like whisky while women would request for ‘soft’- mineral drinks- like Fanta, and Maltina or Maltex. They said women like a lot of sweet things and complain that beer tastes like diluted bitter-leaf soup yet guzzle them down their insatiable throats at beer parlors after work whilst the women cooked at home.
It took another 5 years before mummy took in and I began to grow inside her womb. She and daddy tried but no luck until Matron Ogoke taught her the billings natural method that Rev. Sister Rose lectured the leaders of the Christian mothers organization in our parish. Mummy did not know when her ovulation came, so daddy would shoot and miss the goal by default. All she counted well was her money but not the most fertile days that Matron Ogoke had marked on the 28days women’s calendar. She said daddy was happy the day her monthly blood refused to show. That day, daddy shouted ‘it is goal’ like when Christian Chukwu scored a goal through a ‘penariti’. Now we call it a penalty like oyinbo people.
Papa is quiet and gentle and did not do “gragra” like mama. Dr. Njoku said such women use to have miscarriages, and Matron Ogoke warned mama too. She missed her business at the shop. Daddy and one big uncle brought two house girls from our village to cook and our house chores. Brother Okey assisted mama in the shop to sell things to customers. But she was the one who collected the money and gave the customers change. When mama’s tummy grew bigger, Dr. Njoku had to put her under “house arrest” like mommy called it. She said only lazy people crossed their legs and sit in one place from morning till night. But for my sake, she obeyed so that I won’t be like my brother who died. She would rub her tummy and talk to me like I had ears. ‘’Nwam, you will live long for me, you hear!’’ she would mutter as she stroked and traced the roof of her womb. Maybe that was why I used to somersault in her womb out of excitement.
That was why her joy took a flight the day Matron Ogoke told her I was lying in breech position like my brother did before her was born. A miracle was needed to lure me to turn and head southward. She drank holy water from Elele which Father Ede blessed specially for Papa. Mama’s rosary beads are very long like the ones reverend sisters from the covenant strapped to their waist band. She would mutter “Hail Mary” with her eyes closed, knowing that Jesus Christ had performed his first miracle after people cried to Virgin Mary for help when wine bibbers and revelers exhausted the drinks for the legitimate guests at the wedding in Cannan. She then talked to Jesus like any mother would; Knowing he would finally obey. He did and the wine connoisseurs wished for more water to be turned into wine at more weddings. So every night and day, mama called on Mary saying “Our lady mother of Jesus, help make my baby live and not die. Let my baby’s body to turn for I don’t want any operation again”.
It was in the midst of such prayers that I began to swim and kick her again. As I kicked and wriggle inside her womb, something like electric shock gripped her waist and before she knew it labor pangs took over. Daddy was at home that evening and carried her in his Peugeot 404 ‘station wagon’ with registration number ‘ECU 3150” which he bought after the civil war. Before Imo and Anambra states were carved out by General Yakubu Gowon from the East Central Regional. It took him about 15 minutes to drive from our house at 86 Ohafia Street to Queen Elizabeth’s hospital along Aba road.
Matron Ogoke said that my delivery was a miracle. That couple of minutes after mum began to writ in pain on the couch ready to push, my curly head emerged. She had to use a scissors to cut mama before my big head scaled the hurdle. Dr. Njoku had travelled to his village to visit his father who had stroke. Mummy said it our people called stroke ‘mbam mmuo” because it is only evil spirits that can slap somebody to paralyze the leg and arm on one side of the body. They said I cried immediately unlike my “big brother” and I began to suck my left thumb as though mum’s breast milk was not enough for me. Mommy had shouted ‘Chineke thank sir’ when she cuddled me alive in her weary hands!
I was baptized 8 days later at one of the morning masses inside the chapel at St. Finbarr’s by Father Joe. Mama said I licked the holy water that was sprinkled on my face, while other children cried. She named me Chiwendum-God owned my life- because I did not die like my brother. My Baptismal name is Eusebius but they called me ‘Uzeb’ at home. Mum called used to call me ‘Ndu’ because she had felt the pain of death, hence treasured my life so much.
My grandma, ‘Mama “Nnukwu” came for the “omugwo” to help mama bathe me and nurse me. She brought the hot spice ‘uda’ to prepare yam pepper soup- “ji mmiri oku”- for mama which had more pepper more than the one the sold in beer parlors. Three months later they did my church dedication -“ikufu chochi”-, when other women sang “egwu omurunwa”, danced and did ‘ibara’ with mama on their way from St. Finbarr’s. Daddy gave the Catechist money for ‘High Mass” because he was happy that at last, his first son had been presented to God in church like Jesus Christ.
When I turned 4 years, daddy was promoted to a big position in the ministry. We moved to a bigger house- a bungalow with a fence and black gate in front at number 20 Azikiwe Street. Laborers from daddy’s office used to cut the grass in our backyard, twice a month, except during raining season when the grasses grew fast like “okuko English fowl”. Daddy now had a driver who parked the brand new ash-coloured Peugeot 505 SR in the garage. This government vehicle did not emit smoke like daddy’s 404 station wagon. And whenever we travelled with it to the village, the policemen used to respect us on the road without asking for bribe from daddy. If not daddy would write a petition to the police commissioner in Umuahia and the officers would be in soup. My dad’s colleagues used to call him “Mr. Petition writer” in the ministry. Once he is annoyed with any principal in Umuahia, he would write to the Commissioner of Education and that principal will be punished by posting him to remote places like Ohaozara or Afikpo, where no car can reach easily.
Daddy boasted about Chief Sam Mbakwe, who won the governorship election in 1979 in Imo state- an Obowo man from Etiti Local Government Area- who worked so hard to develop the old Imo State. But daddy disliked politicians; and called them corrupt people that tried to bribe him to rig the election, when he served as returning officer for FEDECO. He said it was because he refused to be bribed by NPN people that NPP won in Imo state. It was when NPP came to power that he was promoted and he started living like a big man. He used to boast that Governor Sam was his senior in secondary school. And that he built roads, bridges, industries, Amaraku power station and many other things. He did not like it when people called Chief Sam Mbakwe “the weeping governor”. He said Chief Sam only cried, because President Shehu Shagari and the NPN party people like Alhaji Umaru Dikko ate Nigerian people’s money. And that was why the ENUGU-PORTHARCORT Expressway had too many portholes like other roads and trunk A roads in Ibo land.
Daddy didn’t talk much at home. He is always reading the Statesman Newspaper and the Daily Times, which he brought back from his office every day except on weekends when he bought Weekend Concord and Lagos Weekend. On Sundays he read ‘The Leader’ which featured articles written by Rev. Fathers and seminarians. He would recline on his easy chair just the way big men lounged on their bogus chairs. The type that carpenters padded with foam as soft as Dunlop pillows. He also listened to BBC and VOA on his JVC short wave transistor radio, and talked about England like one who had received award from the queen.
We only watched our black and white TV at night during the boring 9’oclock network news that NTA Channel 10 Aba showed every night. Daddy always got angry when NEPA took the light during the news. He said that watching the news would help me in current affairs. He also liked ‘Ukonus Club’ and the only time he laughed with us was when ‘Chief Zebburudaya Okoroigwe Nwobodo alias 430 and his ‘Masquerade’ team regaled us with jokes in their comic drama. I didn’t like the ugly and angry looking ‘Nathy’, but liked ‘Clarius Omengeoji’ and ‘Giringori Akabuogu’ who made me, mama and the house girls giggle like laughing jackass, throwing their legs up. Mummy will always tell them to keep their legs together like women.
Daddy allowed the boys in my street to join us to watch ‘On the Mat’ wrestling matches on Saturday afternoons. I liked ‘Mill Mascaras’ the masked one, who used to fly in the air like a monkey but was not as powerful and big like ‘Mighty Igor’ the world heavy weight champion then. We would try to punch and kick each other afterwards like the wrestlers until dad warned us. I longed to grow up and become a man so I can grow big muscles like the wrestlers and boxers that danced around the ring to throw punches at each other.
After my 8th birthday, I became a man overnight. I wish that day had passed like those buried in the womb of yesterday. That day I became a man. I was that 8 year old lad that was loved by everyone especially women. Maybe it was my amiable smiles that opened this unknown world and I have repeatedly lost the ever raging battle with the entwining grips of memory’s arms. I had bid farewell to childhood but have had a stunted growth into adulthood a dozen years later.
We had closed for Easter holidays and daddy and mummy had travelled to Elele to celebrate the Holyb Week at Father Ede’s. I remember clearly what I wore that Friday morning. After I had my bathe my bathe, our oldest housemaid, auntie Uju gave me my favourite red short ‘knicker’ which mom had bought at Ariaria market. After I licked dry my small bowl of ‘akamu’ and three balls of ‘akara’, I heard her familiar voice all me. She sounded so nice that morning unlike before. Maybe it was the excitement of the holiday that worked on her voice. She used to shout and coerce me to eat before then.
But this morning she gave me two extra cubes of St. Louis sugar to sweeten my akamu.
‘Ndum oo” she called out like an angel and the name sounded sweeter than Eusebius. I listened well to be certain it was her. Like mum, she now doted and fondly called me in a most loving tone.
‘Ndu boy, have you finished your food?’
‘Yes auntie Uju’, I answered.
‘Have your dropped your plate in the kitchen?’ she asked with so much care.
‘No daa’ I answered. ‘I will do it now now’
‘When you finish eh, come and play in my room you hear?’
‘Yes auntie, I will come now now now’ I said eagerly.
I dashed off to the kitchen to drop my plates and hurriedly dumped them in the clogged sink. Come and play in her room? That offer stirred my heart. With no junior brother or senior brother to play with, the prospect of playing in the house girls’ room was to me an honor. We could now play hide and seek and other plays that I liked so much but had no one to play with.
The cocoa butter pomade she was rubbing on her body filled the air with its sweet and redolent aroma. She did not tie the wrapper up to her chest like mummy did at night before she and daddy retired into their bed room to sleep. She was naked and I tried to cover my eyes, but she kept on smiling. I thought she would beat me when my eyes roved from her head to her legs. It was her body. Everything that I saw was bare and open. I thought it was only daddy’s chest and round tummy that should not be covered, except with his Hings’ singlet that had openings for breeze to enter.
She giggled like someone whose armpits were tickled mischievously. She then sat on her creaking 6- springed bed overlaid with a sunken mattress.
‘Nna come and sit with me, I will tell you the story of ‘Nnabe’, the tortoise and his wife, ‘Alia’. And how I liked the stories of the wise tortoise and his intrigues! I didn’t hesitate and hurriedly hopped in with her on the bed. The glint in my eyes made the room look brighter even though she had drawn the window blinds to shield us from any peering eyes.
She carried me on her laps and rocked me like mommy did whenever malaria made my body quiver. She allowed my head to rest on her undulating chest that was as soft as the pillows on my bed. The tortoise story she told sounded sweeter this time than when mummy told them. She said the second story was about Mazi Omenuko, the merchant. That the story was sweetest when one is lying down. She then lay supine with her legs wide apart. She then pulled off my red short “knicker” and made me lie prone over her. I twitched when my ‘wee wee’ touched her body. She kept tickling my body, giggling and laughing. She even sobbed even though I didn’t pinch her. Yet she kept on brushing my body over hers. She closed her eyes but I didn’t see any tears, and told me to touch her chest like those women who breast fed their babies when mummy took me to the dispensary for measles immunization. I don’t know why she asked me to do that since I’m not a baby, maybe she knew why…
Then a knock came, it was more than a tap on the door and I heard it first. Maybe her ears closed with her eyes too. ‘Auntie Uju’ I nudged, ‘somebody is knocking on the door’.
‘Is there nobody in this house?’ the male voice bellowed.
Auntie Uju lifted me up, and quickly jumped out of the bed. She grabbed her wrapper and tied it across her shoulders faster than when she removed them earlier.
‘ Oya wear your short knicker now’, she said as she slipped my legs back into the red shorts.
The knocks grew louder with the intensity of the quizzing voice.
‘I’m coming oh,’ auntie Uju responded as she rushed out of the room to the sitting room.
It was papa Ebuka’s voice; our next door neighbor and Papa’s friend who came around to see daddy.
‘Good afternoon sir’, Uju greeted with a smile.
‘Thank you my daughter’, he answered. ‘Is your daddy not around this one his car is not around?’
‘Yes sir. They went to Elele for Father Ede’s Easter mass.’
‘I see’ he said nodding his head. Tell them I came to greet when they come back. Don’t forget inugo!’
‘I won’t forget sir’ she responded.
Soon after he left, auntie Uju locked the door and we continued the play. She asked me to tickle and cuddle her until we both slept that afternoon. She also tickled my body and I liked it too and I felt so honored that auntie Uju had allowed me to snuggle under the boughs of her arms like babies and toddlers.
When we woke up later in the evening, she asked if I liked the play or the folktales. I wasn’t sure what the difference was between being tickled and a likeable story. I think I liked the story and the special play. I nodded as I said ‘auntie the play is very sweet’.
‘If you tell anybody eh, I won’t play with you again’, she had warned.
It sounded like an irrevocable and enforceable sanction. This threat of withdrawal of a rare privilege confused the unqualified like me. So I nodded to her welcomed threat. I had felt what I had never experienced before and though it confused me, I didn’t want it to end too soon.
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(Like they’d say in Nollywood, “To God be the Glory”…so watch out for part 2...!)

In the studio with JEREMIAH GYANG

2009-04-06T01:37:00.000-07:00

IN THE STUDIO WITH JEREMIAH GYANG
©Felix Abrahams Obi
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Abuja, Saturday the 4th of April 2009:
The rains came with a thud on Abuja’s patched landscape and I got stuck behind the walls of British Council’s library where I had gone to feed my mind. As the rains waned in intensity, I quickly rushed to Arcade Suites – a few poles - from the Transcorp Hilton to meet with my public health mentor, career and research adviser, Dr Tarry Asoka who has been a great inspiration since I left clinical work as a physiotherapist to branch into public health management. I usually treasure every moment I spend with him. His out-of-the-box thinking style and deep insights on health issues have broadened mine. We shared views on integrated health systems and performance management in health and the need for novel thinking in the planning and management of healthcare systems in Nigeria.
Though the pull to stay longer with him was strong, I had to take a break from our seminal discussion for some reasons. I had promised to join a friend at a wedding dinner at City Park (garden) along Ahmadu Bello Way. The pregnant clouds had conspired to disrupt the ambience of the evening dinner and guests scurried to the few tents around for shelter while many made for their cars to drive off in the rain. Though I contemplated going back home to rest, another promise I made earlier constrained me; another dear friend I respect so much, Jeremiah Gyang had been waiting for me in a music studio downtown, where he’s been recording songs for his new album. The volte face I made turned out to be one of my most cherished evenings in recent times.
While lounging together with him and Blast (a music producer) at Transcorp Hilton sometime in 2007, Jeremiah had told me about his plans to release a sophomore album ; a follow-up to his maiden album, ‘Na Ba Ka’ which had come as a breath fresh air to so many of us then. He took me to his car so I can sneak-listen to excerpts of songs from the album titled “Love Album”. Blast was almost certain the album would ‘disappoint’ so many fans who saw Jeremiah Gyang as a ‘gospel artist’; a categorization he had vehemently refused to adorn as a toga, while not planning to decamp from the Christian faith. He has a passion to reach those who would ordinarily not listen to a gospel song nor deliberately walk into the bowels of a church where gospel songs are sung by believers.
Yet God has so many other children that he loves so deeply and passionately, and they hardly enter the church to sing and clap. These precious children of God had filled Jeremiah’s mind for too long and he had to dig deep into his soul to bring out this classic album. He inadvertently had put into use that ‘beneficiary doctrine’ espoused by John Argenti which Dr. Tarry Asoka and I had discussed minutes before I went to the studio. People are meant to benefit positively from every creative enterprise of our artists rather than be negatively harmed. Jeremiah’s heart wails as we all helplessly watch our political and economic leaders loot and impoverish our nation that was built by ‘the labours of our heroes past’.
But his heart bleeds more for the moral mis-education of our youths by Nigerian hip-hop artists who have brazenly churned out lewd and sexually-explicit songs in recent times. Like a prophet, he fears the dire consequences of this pervasive moral decadence on our nation and posterity. His ‘Love Album’ is a redemption project of sorts aimed at re-educating us on what true love is between man and God, and between a man and woman, and how best to express it to God and others. To him, true love can be expressed or given within the bounds of moral purity and selflessness.
The album aims to celebrate and value women; the unfortunate objects for the gratification of men’s sensual overtures and exploitative love. The songs are bereft of ‘booty calls’ and bared cleavages and the hour-glass curvatures of women. Neither does he denigrate women as those bare-stripped and pitiable ‘kokolets’ who gleefully ‘wind am well’ to the delight of well-dressed male artists. The “Love Album” is truly a celebration of pure and untainted love at both the vertical and horizontal dimension: man-to-God; and man-to-woman!
Tears glistened my eyes as I listened to him sing into the microphone, the 1st track titled ‘God is Love’ -translated ‘Kauna Allah’ in Hausa- while I sat behind the mixers and computer monitors that displayed the digital output. It wasn’t just his sweet-textured and crooning voice, or the metallic feel of the infused rock guitar strings alone that evoked the tears. I wasn’t sure if it was the alluring voice and sleekly-delivered accompanying rap by 19-year old rapper, ‘Skales’ that stirred my innermost being. If the English version sets you ablaze, the Hausa remix will get you into a celebratory mood that will at least make your legs shuffle and tap in tune with its African rhythm enriched with chants and the ‘dumdum’ sounds of the traditional clay pots used in our folks songs.
Certainly, my heart resonated as he expressed his love to ‘His Father in Heaven” who had brought meaning to his life. The One who is the personification True Love and to whom he had dedicated the song; and the album entirely! I couldn’t sit anymore and had to raise my hands in worship to God, whose love has been a benumbing reality. Only a few songs have in the past broken the tears sacs at the corners of my eyes: Bebe Winans’ “Love me anyway’’; Don Moen’s “You make me lie down’’; Ben Okafor’s “God you too much’’; Darwin Hobbs’ “We worship you today” and a couple others. Not wanting to enjoy the privilege of previewing and enjoying the song alone, I had to call a friend in Lagos, Odunoluwa -who loves Jeremiah’s songs so much- and she was so excited to hear Jeremiah’s voice sing and speak into her phone!
He also dedicated a track titled ‘Daddie’s Song’- a Hausa rendition of the popular hymns, ‘’Rock of Ages cleft for Me” to his late mentor and dad under whose feet he learnt to play the piano and strum the guitar as a 6-year old boy. He is yet to fully recover from the emotional trauma of the death of his beloved mom who left this world on January 1st, 2009 while he was performing in Abuja to usher in the New Year. That a young man (now an orphan) can overcome the painful loss of his parents to still be a blessing to the world with classic songs is a testimony of his versatility and strength. A song for his mama will come someday after he’d fully absorbed the death of his mom, whom he still tries to ‘call on phone’ only to be reminded of the void she’d left in his heart.
I was engrossed in the studio for 3 to 4 hours listening to several other songs in the 15-track album. ‘In Love with you’’ which celebrates marriage will be sure to displace some of the reigning wedding songs we have today. Women looking for the right reasons to accept a man’s engagement ring would need to listen to ‘My proposition’ in which he promises on bended knees to love a woman right, and the be the only father of her children. The song, “You are my Fire”- a beautifully delivered ballad - reminds me of how Solomon was ravished by his beloved. Like C.S. Lewis had scripted in a verse, “Love is fierce as fire, Love is fire: All sorts-Infernal heat clinkered with greed and pride, Lyric desire, sharp-sweet, laughing, even when denied, and that empyreal flame, whence all love came’’.
Other songs in the album include “Ke ce Kadai”- You’re the only One- which celebrates monogamous love for the one he loves. Another song titled “Guitar” has a Latino and rock infusion that gets you off your seat to the dance and sway, while the strings he played live in ‘’With You’’ will be sure to tease your soul.
As the true son of a pastor and preacher that he is, he mounts the pulpit not to promise miracles and breakthroughs but to caution and plead with women in the heart-touching song titled “keep it’. Having observed what happens in nightclubs and the dating scene, he exhorts and begs women to ‘keep their body’ only for the ‘‘man that has the guts to walk them up the aisle and able to stick with them for life’’. He cautions girls against casual sex with ‘guys who feign to love them and are keen on taking advantage of them. In this song, he extols the sacredness of a woman’s body so that women won’t allow guys to ‘sleep and mess around with them’. He reminds women to reckon the emotional pain that outweighs the anticipated pleasure of illicit sex since most guys won’t share this secret with them!
Jeremiah doesn’t hide his love for this beautiful country Naija which he displays in the song, “Let’s Hold Hands” in which he makes a clarion call to all patriotic Nigerians to unite and build our nation so that we can truly realize ‘’Vision 2020’’. He enthuses and shares the hope that we can become an economically viable society, hence should ‘keep hope alive’ knowing that we shall truly overcome all the forces that are impoverishing us as a people. Though many find it hard to see any reason to ‘love Nigeria’, Jeremiah wants us to see beyond the social maladies and setbacks. It was this sort of optimism which Winston Churchill stirred in the hearts of Britons during World War II that helped them rise from the rubbles of Hitler’s blitz Krieg and lethal bonds to become a strong empire till today!
He also played for me two unreleased songs (God’s Love, and Stuck all Alone) delivered silkily by a young and upcoming female artist, Lindsey- a student of University of Jos. Her voice texture reminds one of Sarah McLachlan and our own Sade Adu. He opened the music files of several other songs already compiled for release in the future; a reggae album; a jazz album, a worship album and so many others. Some of the songs in the Love Album are even older than some of the ones in the ‘Na Ba Ka’ album. This is a testimony to his hard work and countless studio output and even if he retires today, Jeremiah has cooked and served a lot more songs for the world to drink from his kitty.
We could have stayed up later than 11pm had NEPA/PHCN not taken the light. So I wait with bated breath for the official release of the album on the 15th of May 2009. At a soon to be convened press briefing and interactive session with arts and culture reporters that will hold in Lagos, he would share his motivation and dreams for Nigeria’s music industry. I am not paid sycophant and ‘oti mkpu’ for Jeremiah, and am certain his fans all over the world will not be disappointed with what Jeremiah is offering us. For I was in the studios with him, and the songs blared from the speakers and my ears heard them!
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Felix Abrahams is a physiotherapist and poet who lives and works in Abuja and can be reached via halal3k@yahoo.com and www.nuggetz4life.blogspot.com.

The Nostalgia of Unshed Tears

2009-04-02T09:16:00.000-07:00

THE NOSTALGIA OF UNSHED TEARS
© By Felix Abrahams Obi
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Wednesday Morning-25th March 2009: The Abia Line bus ride to Umuahia was smooth in speed yet bumpy all the same. All through the about 8hours long journey from Abuja, I clutched Teju Cole’s novel “Every Day is for the Thief” which kept my eyes and mind company and evoked nostalgic feelings of Lagos: a city that pulls me strongly, yet loathes my person and my need for serenity. Along the Lokoja-Ajaokuta stretch, passengers swear at the government and the contractors; and burst into lamentations when tufts and whirls of dust puffed into our nostrils from the bitumen-bare surface. As we ride along, the bumps sneer and mock at the weakened shock-absorbers of the Toyota ‘hummer’ bus.
Eight hours later, I spot the sky-tall Abia Tower that signaled we’ve arrived Owerri and the feeling that I am now closer home than I was 8 hours earlier. A senile and rickety Peugeot 504 saloon car stood by to ferry commuters to my village; only 15 minutes drive from Umuahia at a donkey’s average speed. A notice that distant maternal ‘uncle’ (a cousin of sorts from mom’s extended family) and his wife were already inside the car. Surprise lines contour their faces as we exchange greetings. To make a good impression I buy a loaf of bread as long as my forearm and I watch his wife’s mouth gap to release commensurate praise. To cap it all, I pay their fares and mine. For how else will I prove that I’m a big boy visiting the village from Abuja if I allow thriftiness to overwhelm my reputation? After all, is Abuja not the place to flaunt filthy lucre stolen from our brows by politicians and paper contractors?
As I spot the access road to my family house, I disembark and hurl my small travel bag to my back. With my Sony digital camera strapped across my neck, I take the short walk to my family house; where I was nursed and groomed. Home is home and I heave a sigh of relief. My niece makes a quick dash to hugs me like a lover who has missed her beaus. Broad smiles make her eyes tingle and glitter and she relieves me of the bag and camera. HOME; It has not changed so much save that my cousins, half-, second- and other cousins have all moved into the cities and countries within and outside Nigeria in pursuit of money and their dreams.Yea, dreams that the village couldn’t birth and nurture.
I look around but no sign of mom’s presence and they tell me she’s gone to Umuihi; the nearby village where her sister lived for the past 60 years till ‘death do us part’. I choose to not think of the scene of cries and moans at Umuihi till tomorrow when mom’s elder and only sister will be interred. My ‘uncle’ (he’s actually my most senior cousin) was sleeping in my grandfather’s (actually was my most senior uncle) room and I gently tap on the door to place a little Abuja gift beside him. My senior cousins and I didn’t meet our grandfather alive so I’ve now adopted my most senior cousin as my ‘father’, and had in the past seen my senior uncle and my father’s elder brother as my ‘grandfather’ before he died. The creaking hiss of the door hinges roused him, and delight fills his heart as he sees me. We embrace like father and son, and talk family matters for a while. We then conclude arrangement for the burial of my aunt. We are to but food and drinks for extended family members and kindred folks that will follow us to my aunt’s place the next day.
Then I leave his room to drop a mothers’ day gift from my cousin for her mom at my father’s younger brother’s house which adjoins the main family house; a house that has housed an sheltered three generations of Obi’s after my grandfather’s demise. I watch as she unwraps the parcel and joy takes over her heart as she tells me how thoughtful my younger cousin has been. It was a befitting mother’s day gift from a girl that loved her mom so deeply. We talk about home affairs and local politics and sundries until a knock by a frantic mother; a neighbor and wife of a local chief in our kindred.
We listen to her lamentation but for some weird reasons, my ears refuse to cringe at the details of the event that has set her heart reeling in emotional anguish. Her teenage son had been ‘making out’ with an ‘extended cousin’ of ours and she was afraid the recalcitrant girl could get pregnant and this brazenly open incestuous relationship might rip her destiny apart and bring a curse on them. The dazzling girl had chosen to schlep along the same paths for which her mom was once sent back to her parents’ home when she was caught in the very act years back. Life seems not to easily forget to trace the arcs and cycles that encircle a generation to the 3rd and 4th generation till a daughter repeats the same acts for which her mother was abhorred. I wail within over a mom’s adultery that has given birth to a daughter’s incest. I mutter silently, ‘’Tufiakwa! Chineke ekwela ka aruu mee.’’ God forbid bad thing!
My ears now full, I take my leave to rest for the night. But the same NEPA that morphed into PHCN deny me the honor of sleeping under the whirling blades of the ceiling fan. So I make a detour and emerge from the room to sit outside on the 19-year old tomb of my father’s younger brother. Fresh breezes tease the hairs on my skin and cooled blood course through my veins and no sooner, my tacky body receive the freshness I had longed for. It was barely 9 PM and my family folks had retired into their rooms to sleep while I lounge outside listening to the beckoning calls and chirps of birds, crickets, roaches and other things that creep, run and fly at night. I remember how as a child, I played ‘beach soccer’ with my cousins and peers on the sandy turf of our extended family’s playground. And at night, we boys and our little girls played hide and seek under the watchful eyes and twinkle of the moon and stars. When I had my lungs full of salubrious air, I retreat from the quietness of the dark night into the room…till morning.
Thursday Afternoon-26th March 2009: My memory’s eyes usually take pictures that can easily be played back at will, so I try to tame it through an embargo of sorts. I just deny it the thrill of taking snapshots of any fresh and painful events and scenes. That kind of food embargo that Pa Awolowo contrived to ensure that Biafran children and their rebellious Army shriveled from hunger and kwashiorkor before capitulating to the brute force of the Federal army. Yea, that civil war that made refugees stay under the shelter of our iconic family house for weeks and months; but before I was born.
So I delayed for a night the journey to Umuihi for my mom’s only sister’s burial. For to see her lifeless face may be an ‘injustice’ to fond memories of her, so thought a selfish voice within. A psychotherapeutic strategy that I adopted to handle the painful death of a beloved cousin that died through an auto crash in Johannesburg about 3 years ago. I just took ‘permission’ from his dad to stay back in Abuja rather than travel back home to ‘see’ the corpse of my janded cousin-brother. At least I retained his smiley face and no record of his death exists in my psyche except all those sweet memories we shared from our childhood. It worked like magic!
The short ride on Okada took a matter of minutes before the local Catholic Church came into my view. I make straight for the front seats not blinking at the wary eyes that peered endlessly at me and my camera was strapped across my shoulders. I see maternal uncles, cousins, nephews and nieces that I hadn’t seen in ages clad in identical uniforms. I had no family uniform but a native wear that I had ‘designed’ for the tailor to test his sartorial skills. As I spot mom, I quietly come to sit behind her. The hubby of my aunt’s eldest daughter; a proud grandfather, asks why I don’t visit him when NDDC had tarred the road to his village. Funny enough I am sure he doesn’t know my name or seen me before!
Mom’s eyes glowed when a cousin informed her I had arrived and was seated behind her. I plant a peck on her sagging cheeks that looked so well sculpted in the picture she took with her sister at my late brother’s wedding 20 years ago. We listen as the priest recounts the last moments he had with my aunt a couple of weeks earlier and how she travailed and poured her hearts out to God in the chapel. And 3 days after the encounter with her, she gave up the ghost and breathed her last; at the age of 85 years.
Her strength didn’t wane for I was told she still went to her farms and attended to her business at the local market before the ‘short illness’ that took her unawares. If death was a strong but fair wrestler, I am certain my aunt would have given him a good fight, for a fighter she and her siblings had been. Her hubby died about 40 years ago but widowhood never took the shine off her life or make her surrender to travails and challenges of living without the reassuring presence of the man she loved and married.
As the burial service went on, my eyes alight on my mom as she lifts the funeral brochure to take a closer look at her sister’s face. Her fingers trace the cover page and she didn’t bother to look away when my curious eyes and camera lens caught that moment. She gazed at her sister’s face for moments that seemed to have been cut-out from eternity’s endless seconds and eons. No other one saw her but what would touch me was the gravity with which she did that in utter silence. He muttered no words, no sighs. I saw her eyes glint and glisten with unshed tears.
The sacredness of that moment made goose bumps roughen the smooth-contoured muscles of my heart. There was no speech, no questions, and no words; only glances and unexpressed tears and words. Deep in her thoughts, I sensed some pictures might have popped in from their shared childhood and adulthood. She may have remembered how my aunt played the big sister role for years after the demise of my father. Auntie went out of her way to ensure that her little sister (mom) never felt lonely or be drowned in the misery and sorrow of widowhood as a young woman. Her big sister and only surviving sibling has gone the way of her parents and other siblings forever.
So in silence, my camera and I witnessed mom’s nostalgic moment of unshed tears as she communed with her beloved sister’s face on the burial brochure. She was quiet and oblivious of what the reverend father was saying in that moment of history. Unshed tears flowed in my heart as I exit my body to feel the sorrow that tinged with pleasant memories that two sisters had shared for decades. This for me was the most precious of moments that would remain fresh in my heart for years to come. It was grave and nostalgic…was sorrowful…was beautiful…and so sacred that I would cherish and commit it to memory as long as I breathe.
The funeral mass now over, the priest leads the mass of human heads and faces to my aunt’s final resting place at her late husband’s house. Two young men leap into the rectangular hole hewn out of the red earth to receive the white coffin that housed the bodily remains of my beloved aunt. As family members pay her final respects, the young men shovel heaps of red earth to cover the glistening white coffin till it’s shut out of our view forever. Tears roll down the cheeks of few family members but there was no wailing by professional mourners. Music starts to blare from loud speakers, the village women sing and dance, food and drinks course the throats of many. People hustle for food and drinks and the voices of folks that should have adorned a dour and mournful mien modulate to a higher octave; of mirth that is bereft of sorrow.
Though not a wedding, my cousin frantically calls for my help like the Virgin Mary did at the Canaan wedding; “Chei, the drinks have finished and there are so many ‘uninvited’ guests!!!” I then empty all the naira bills in my pocket so we don’t get smeared with shame and derision by the guests that included three traditional village kings and titled chiefs. Even a miser or pauper would have heeded my elegant and beautiful cousin’s pleas after what she allowed me to see…a precious part of her body that had been ravaged by cancer. That sacred part of her that suckled her beloved children with pure milk before this army of ferocious villains chose to wage a most unfortunate war. The battle that sloshed and flushed away hard earned money in endless chemotherapy sessions and visits to oncologists! What senseless war that brutally snatched away precious female friends and wonderful women from me, leaving only trails of tears on our faces and in our hearts.
Mom couldn’t eat all day and only managed to sip a mouthful from the bottle of Fanta her nephew had offered to assuage her thirst. She and her niece prepared a plate of akpu and egusi soup for me, and I was surprised that I licked my fingers dry. At twilight, mom makes a volte-face by deciding to go back to our own village rather than spend the night at her sister’s. My nudging advice didn’t sway her resolve. Unknown to me, she had cried all night while her sister was laid in state and now needed to heed an inevitable summon by the purveyors of sleep. When I arrived home later at night, she was far gone into the world of dreams having capitulated to a dose of pain-relieving pills that helped to calm her pulsating skull.NEPA chose to not disprove that notorious toga of ‘agents of darkness’ they brazenly burnish before our faces. So my sleep was not soporific!
Friday Morning-27th March 2009; A friend had called from London to make a request that I help him see his old man. So I trace my way to his family house to check his dad who had fractured his thigh bone over a year ago. Village bone setters had milked out over a thousand Pounds Sterling from him but the x-ray showed that the fractured ends of the bone have been resting in peace with no ossification and joining in sight. My friend’s parents recognized my face as the ‘Son of Abraham’- ‘that kind man’- and I glow within in mirth for the respectful name my father had left behind. A legacy and heritage he had bequeathed to me even when I still don’t know what he looked like or sounded. My friend’s dad tells me he’s my dad’s age mate and as he counts his fingers, he is amazed only a few of his mates in the village still breathed fresh air through their nostrils. Their obituary notices had faded out of our collective memory but have been saved and stored in the hearts of precious family members and friends!
Afternoon comes and I bid my folks goodbye after sharing a cup of tea with mum. I take a 10-minute walk to Imo Transport Corporation bus terminus at Isinweke, my LGA (Ihitte-Uboma) headquarters for the 45minutes trip to Owerri to commiserate with a childhood friend whose will be buried a week after my aunt’s . Before we depart, I make a quick dash to the 50years old health centre where I was born; still standing at its foundations. I then zoom and focus my lens to take several shots of the overlooking Central School Ihitte building; the primary school where I took lessons on the bare floor as an ‘Otakara pupil’ long before the advent of nursery schools and Montessori.
As I watch kids play around, nostalgia grips me and I recall when I wore my pair of green ‘short knickers’ that had bright-colored patches at the bum area; they were non-luminous headlamps that attracted the jeer of fellow naughty kids that we were. The motor park men, market women and onlookers watch me with suspicious eyes as my camera’s shutter make click sounds whilst the emitted flash light gets swallowed up by the sun’s brightness.
Posterity will wail and revolt if I ever forget late Madam Ogoke that taught me how to hold my white and colored chalks to scribble and scrawl on my charcoal-painted slate in her Primary One class. Pictures of Madam Ohagi and my Primary 3 class ‘Miss’ bubble from their resting place and I remember how they painstakingly guided me to count and write 1.2.3 in my blue-faced Apex Mill exercise book. I remember my Primary 4 mistress, Miss Julie who had made me bond with Uzoma Ohajuru,my class rival 9that displaced me from the 1st position in Primary 3) and with whom I started exchanging and receiving letters sealed in ‘air mail par avion’ white envelops in Primary 5 . Will I ever delete from my memory, the stinging cane of my Primary 5 class teacher, Miss Chinyere who coerced my big eyes to get stuck to gleaning from the black pastures on the white pages of books till date. Memories of my late stern-looking village headmaster who thrashed my bums in Primary 4 days for acting naughty comedy scripts with ‘Miss Benaaaaa’s’ name refuse to wane. He would yet elevate me in primary 6 to the lofty post of ‘’School Bell Ringer” cum “Mail Runner”.
We cruise past lush green palm trees and familiar footpaths that my worn out school sandals had schlepped daily to listen to my teachers at Madonna Boys High School Ihitte; where I took my first lessons in integration and differentiation just a few days before the WAEC/GCE exams in Additional Mathematics which I determined to not fail by all means. We would alight from the bus at ITC Owerri Park when the sun’s piercing anger made our heads burn and our bodies to roast like a barbecue.
An Okada rider ferries me to ABC Transport Corporate Headquarters for a long-overdue visit, and my writer friend and brother-in-pen, Uche Umez welcomes me with open arms. We talk about books and encourage each other to keep writing. For Chimamanda, our sister-writer now stand above others in our generation but write we must even if it’s just to compete for prizes alone. We had wished our 9-5 jobs respected our need to visit the Muse often and dig deeper into our soul to harvest words, pictures and sounds with our creative plows and shares. We’ve written short stories and poems, but we now crave for months-long writer-in-residence posts and fellowships for unbroken moments to work on our maiden full-length novels. Lunch served…and hours later I bid him goodbye!
I stop by an eatery at the behest of a ‘friend’s friend’ and her three young Imo State University girlfriends join us at the table. They are full of life but tinged with tomorrow’s uncertainties in matters of the heart. They are Igbo girls who moan about how ‘boring’ Owerri was unlike Lagos where they all live, but they need IMSU’s certificate anyway. They excitedly talk about boyfriends, ‘catching fun’, but not about their lectures and contemporary issues.
One, a ‘confused’ 200 level babe is the archetypal hot chick, and a ‘hotu bebes’ for whom three(3) cool young guys are tugging, pulling and ‘beefing’ each other just to grab the key to her young heart: her ex-; her admirable classmate cum unofficial body guard; and the most potent contender , the admirable playboy with lots of money to throw around. A tattoo stares at me from her shoulder while I sit still to gain insight on what best counsel to offer her as though she were my blood sister. She and her friends nodded in affirmation that my cousel made sense but there was also the God factor which I quietly emphasized before we dispersed.
King Solomon’s words come to mind as we part and I make for my childhood friend’s; the one that lost his ‘once’ beautiful mother. I had forgotten to remind the four university girls that my ‘once’ beautiful aunt was buried the previous day and they would someday also grow old and will likely die someday too.
‘Rejoice, O young man in your youth, and let your heart cheer you in the days of your youth. Walk in the ways of your heart and the sight of your eyes; but know that for all these, God will bring you into judgment. Therefore remove sorrow from your heart, and put away evil from your flesh, for childhood and youth are vanity. Remember now your Creator in the days of youth, before the difficult days come, and the years draw near when you say’ I have no pleasure in them”…For man goes to his eternal home, and the mourners go about the streets…Then the dust will return to the earth as it was, and the spirit will return to God who gave it’.
And I ponder why the great teacher and wise king muttered loudly these last words,” Fear God and keep His commandments, for this is the whole duty of man. For God will bring every work into judgment, including every secret thing whether good or evil”. I shudder and wonder what my aunt told God about her days of youth when she was a beautiful girl…when men cued to ask her hand in marriage!
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Felix Abrahams Obi is a Physiotherapist and Writer based in Abuja and can be reached by email via halal3k@yahoo.com and www.nuggetz4life.blogspot.com

The God Delusion and the Irrational Basis of Religion

2009-03-16T01:42:00.000-07:00

THE GOD DELUSION AND THE IRRATIONAL BASIS OF RELIGION: Reflections of a former Skeptic
©Felix Abrahams Obi
12th March 2009
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The World Book Day celebrations at Regent School Abuja had ended. The Jos-born crooner and multi-instrumentalist, Jeremiah Gyang, the wave making 21years old novelist, Onyeka Nwelue and I were chilling out in the air-conditioned interior of the well-stocked library of the school waiting to have our lunch which was ordered from one of Abuja’s exotic eateries, Drumstix. While the wait lasted, I cuddled and fiddled with Jeremiah Gyang’s two thousand pounds-worth acoustic guitar. For over 10 years, I haven’t mastered as much chords besides the elementary CFG chord, and I strummed the guitar to make sure I still remembered my rudimentary guitar playing skills, and my personal acoustic guitar has been lying-in-state for over 4 years in my living room.
We were an artistic trio that expressed our creativity in different ways but one gene we shared in common is writing. Besides composing and writing songs, Jeremiah’s writing skills and depth of understanding had always amazed me since we became friends few years ago. Onyeka since I met him in 2004 has been consumed by an unprecedented passion to write. And for me, there has been a little grouse between the silent photographer in me that seeks recognition and the restless writer within. Jeremiah had broached a question, ‘what is the most-important tool needed by a writer…?’ and this got Onyeka and me thinking. The musician can point to his musical instruments/studio or his voice if he is strictly a singer. The visual artists will always guard his paint, brushes and canvas till the last drop of his blood dries up. The actor holds unto his scripts and rehearses till the lines and voice of the dramatis personae swallows up his. How would one identify a writer? Is it his pen, his notepads and journals, his computer and sundries? I thought deeply about the most important tool that a writer possesses…and what I sensed to be the right answer is ‘an uncluttered and open mind’
As we talked and exchanged ideas, the topic veered into the realm of religion and two other people joined the debate .Along the line one of us unequivocally announced he’s a ‘Non-theist’ to the shock of our host who hinted he’s a pastor and tried to impress it upon the ‘non-theist’ to accept the Bible as ‘written’ by God as his word while alluding to the important role played by our conscience in terms of right or wrong which to a non-theist doesn’t really hold water. To Jeremiah Gyang, the bible could be seen as a manual of life which God the manufacturer had provided as a means to provide guidance on how we can navigate through life. I made little effort to join the ‘argument’ for or against the Bible which the pastor spoke about passionately. And if I were a non-theist / agnostic or even an atheist, there was no way the pastor’s passionate ranting in defense of the bible would have convinced me to believe in the God of the bible since his arguments or points did little to appeal to my intellect. The Christian will always feel shocked and alarmed when non-believers puncture and counter their arguments to prove the existence of God or the veracity of the Bible.
I have been there in the past when I battled with doubts and questioned the veracity of the bible though I was actively involved in Christian church activities. I had access to a Christian library then, but all the books I glanced through didn’t make much sense, and had no convincing answers to deflate or even assuage my doubts. I attended bible studies and heard the fiery sermons of firebrand pastors and preachers but they did little to clear my doubts. The average Christian believer thinks that the gospel is so simple enough to appeal to anyone who is afraid of life hereafter, without realizing that scientists and philosophers have equally convincing arguments that would make a Christian feel scandalized. The prevalent culture doesn’t allow the Christian to ask, seek and find answers to questions raised by those who are seeking for truth without realizing that ‘the truth you KNOW’ is what actually carries you through in life. We are so content with the weekly manna dished out from the pulpits…but is that really enough to get one grounded in his faith amidst the growing apathy in the world towards God and Christian religion?
As Christians we are wary and even afraid of entertaining questions that challenge the veracity of the bible and the gospel message, and anyone who differs in their reasoning is qualified to die at the stakes like it was in the medieval ages. The God concept was etched in my psyche pretty early like most Africans that grew up in the village. I saw graven images of Igwekala (the god of heaven that is greater than the earth), Amadioha (god of thunder) and other deities that my grandfather and his generation used to worship their ancestors. He was a priest of sorts and upon his death, his head was forbidden from dropping to the ground. He literally sat in a reclining and dignifying positioning in his grave and his skull had a head rest. In that way he went to join his ancestors to whom libations were offered to invoke their spirits to intervene in the affairs of the village. But when the missionaries came, my father and his brothers accepted the ‘religion of the Whiteman” and became Catholic Christians and I joined after I was baptized as an infant.
As a growing child, I still saw the blood of cockerels spattered on some of the surviving shrines in some parts of the village composed of Uha and other trees that stood as staking sticks in a farm. The giant and senile Iroko trees at the eerie village square reminded me of the fear and awe that characterized the worship of Aja-ala (god of the earth), the deity whose residence was the community shrine in my village. As African ‘idol’ worshippers my grandfather and his generation were too scared to question the sovereignty of the gods and their hallowed messengers. Hence when we embraced Christianity we carried on with that attitude of ‘hush-hush-before-the-gods-strike-you-dead attitude for questioning their authority was an invitation of death sentence by thunder and lightning.
So we grew up as Christians who see intellectual curiosity as alien and inimical to the Christian experience’s of spirituality and too afraid to question whatever that is dished to us from the pulpit. Jesus Christ notably challenged the rabbis, and religious leaders of his day and his insightful response to their questions earned him great admiration and respect, besides the supernatural powers he displayed. Apostle Paul, who is one of the most astute and intellectually-sound Christian that ever lived had commended a group of young converts of his in a Greek settlement called Berea because of their intellectual curiosity for they evaluated the veracity of the gospel that Paul had preached to them. Paul’s conversion to Christianity was dramatic as it started with a divinely-instigated question … “Saul Saul, why are you persecuting me…?” which shook and challenged everything he had been though by the rabbis.
For a couple of days, Saul thought deeply about this question and when he was through with the self-discovery and introspection, he became transformed by the TRUTH he encountered and would suffer peril and persecutions for what he believed and propagated. He didn’t need a second opinion to believe in what he preached since his belief system had translated from mere emotional response to a mental assent of truth ratified by his heart. He acquired volumes and collections of parchments and scrolls which he valued so much and would advice young Timothy, his protégé to ‘’… study diligently to be able to ‘teach all patiently and, and in humility correcting those who are in opposition, if God perhaps will grant them repentance, so that they may come to their senses and escape the snare of the devil, having been taken captive by him to do his will ’’. So Christians should be comfortable and considerate enough to empathically listen to the questions and musings of those who don’t feel persuaded to join the Christian bandwagon and there are so many of them in today’s world and their numbers are increasing exponentially to the chagrin of Christians.
As a teenage boy, I came to a point that I somehow began to question the things I had been taught by organized religion; Christianity. The books published by the clergy presumed that no one had the right to question the existence of God and the infallibility of the doctrines and dogmas of my church. I had to resort to reading books and my curiosity saw me stowing away to a close relative’s library, and shielded from prying eyes of family members, I read his Rosicrucian Digests and journals. I read about Egyptology and stuff like astral travels and telepathy. I gazed at the mirror of his mini-temple wondering how they invoked their ‘master’ to show up after each experiment that they were expected to practice at the end of each lesson. Like the Amok member would say, I wanted to translate from the realm of ‘belief’ to the realm of ‘knowing’ which the master assures his adherents and who would choose to believe a thing when the opportunity of knowing and interacting with that thing is at your beck and call.
The Confraternity’s publication ‘Mastery of Life’ had assured me that a lot of the respected scientists I admired had been members of the group which helped them sharpen and stretch their intellectual muscles through the ‘hidden wisdom’ which dated back to Ancient Egypt . Thereafter, I chanced on the psychoanalytic works of Sigmund Freud and I swallowed his secular teachings hook-line and sinker and this began to change my world view. And in my early years as an undergraduate, I became a small disciple of Charles Darwin after reading about his scientific discoveries which made so much sense them. And after my exposure to social theorists and philosophers, I became a Christian-skeptic and the chequered journey of my search for TRUTH heightened.
Many argue that truth is not absolute and it’s up to truth to take up arms and defend itself but one discovery is that when the truth you seek for hits or dawns on you, you have the choice of either denying or reject it. The luxury of ignorance is that it offers seemingly plausible excuses and leeway to denying the veracity of that truth. Somewhere along the way, the truth filtered into my heart in the course of the quest; and I realized that the truth operates its own system of administration and one either accepts to obey its dictates or would choose to live outside its fringes where ignorance rules freely and provides dividends that pale in value to that offered by truth.
I don’t know why the journey ended when it did but I realized that as you steadily continue with the search, truth finally finds you, and not necessarily the converse. When truth finds and rescues you from the grips of ignorance, you end up losing your freedom to live outside the bounds of truth. You become enslaved in a literal sense to that which you know to be the truth and it will demand reparations whenever you contravene its dictates. Freedom thus becomes a relative reality…you either bow to the sovereignty of truth or be bound to whatever that contradicts the truth that has been revealed to you. In the end Sigmund Freud and Charles Darwin lost me as their young and immature disciple though I still respect and hold their ideas and intellectual excellence in high esteem for they truly subjected their brains to think deeply and rationally. The atheistic and secular worldview lost its grips on me and I fully embraced Judeo-Christian ideals espoused by Christ which didn’t even seem to be as rational as the secular and psychoanalytic theories of Freud at face value though.
C.S. Lewis was one of the brightest minds whose writings, poems and deep thoughts rank him among the top philosophers at Oxbridge. He had been an atheist for about 30 years based on the arguments and philosophical writings of Freud. After reading and analyzing the Bible, he capitulated and submitted to Judeo-Christian principles and worldview and eventually became one of its leading apologists. At least he was a man with a high level of cerebral acuity and one would wonder what made him too ‘gullible’ as to accept as truth what was seemingly an irrational system of belief. That is the appeal of truth…it humbles you and sometimes sets aside your insightful arguments until it berths and anchors its deep roots inside your heart and soul. You buckle at your knees and your heart melts and it takes over you stealthily like a stalking lover.
Dr. Armand Nicholi’s of Harvard University has been teaching a legendary course on Sigmund Freud and C.S. Lewis for over 35 years which perennially draws students’ top ratings. Some students cite it as a turning point in their lives: “my most redeeming intellectual experience”… “an oasis” … “what I was starved for.” In 2002, Dr Armanda decided to write a book on the ultimate parlor game from decades of probing the question of God with sharp young minds at Harvard and his own rich database of experiences and study. In the book titled THE QUESTION OF GOD: C.S. LEWIS AND SIGMUND FREUD DEBATE GOD, SEX, AND THE MEANING OF LIFE he pits the two men’s parallel worldviews side by side and how this influenced their certainty of purpose, pleasure in sex …and fear of death and allows the fascinated reader to draw their own conclusions.
Lewis’ and Freud’s spiritual worldviews differed mainly in how they lived their lives and how they confronted their own deaths. Lewis was said to be quite despondent before his conversion and quite cheerful and outgoing afterward. He actually looked forward to the time when he would enter into the life that he felt every believer in Christ had waiting. Even until the end, he was cheerful and outgoing and said, “Why shouldn’t we look forward to that time without people thinking we’re morbid? St. Paul actually looked forward to it.” However, Freud lacking the privilege of spiritual resources available to Lewis was said to be so preoccupied with death and the fear of it. Superstitiously he checked into room 41 of a hotel thinking he would die at 41 and when he didn’t die at 41, he would come across a new phone number and be absolutely sure he’d die in the year mentioned in the number. His official biographer had said that when Freud was still young, he’d shake hands and say, “Goodbye, you may never see me again.”
And when one can’t resolve the problem of death according to psychiatry he either denies or becomes obsessed with it like Freud did. Carl Jung was said he never met a patient over 40 years old whose problems did not go back to the fear of approaching death. I also remember nights as an undergraduate when I dreaded sleep for the morbid fear that I may not wake up the next morning, but since I came to believe in God mentally and emotionally, my sleep has been smooth without the usual bouts of insomnia!
For many Christians, the decision to have faith in God is purely emotional and somewhat superstitious as they are wary of applying their intellect and reason to question their spirituality. Some are too scared to be confronted with arguments that shake and try their spiritual foundations and belief in God. They feel more comfortable only with those who share their convictions and avoid interactions with those who don’t. But they need to realize that though faith in God is considered a simple decision, it is consolidated and fortified by rational thinking and conclusions based on evidences and experiences that support the veracity of our spirituality.
We have to balance our emotional approach to spirituality and belief in God without making our minds unproductive in the process for lack of intellectual engagement and in seeking ways to knowing more about God and realities of living on earth. For instance, it is said of 17th century German mystic Angelus Silesius that he managed both joy and serenity through “the spiritual detachment of his brilliant mind, capable of reaping all the benefits of education, preferment, and social or ecclesiastical structures can offer, without allowing them dwarf the life of the spirit.” Some people testify that the life of the spirit is corroborated by the mind, but cannot be apprehended by the mind alone for we are both intelligent beings on one hand and spiritual beings too. And both are not mutually exclusive in reality for when spiritual attainment is confined to the intellect- the spirit suffers!
The Christian needs to know about the prevailing arguments against Christianity and the sustained efforts being made to promote non-theism, atheism and secular humanism as an ‘organized religion’ worldwide by leading scientists, philosophers and other intelligent minds. Living in such denial and self-delusion will certainly not help the course of Christianity and the negative consequences show as shallowness of the faith and spirituality that we showcase to a world that has transformed rationality and scientific facts into an enviable height that seeks to stifle our religious beliefs.
The celebrated Oxford Professor and evolutionary biologist, Richard Dawkins does not hide his anger at those who believe in God. In his famed book, THE GOD DELUSION, he writes; “As a scientist, I am hostile to fundamentalist religion because it actively debauches the scientific enterprise. It teaches us not to change our minds, and not to want to know exciting things that are available to be known. It subverts science and saps the intellect.” He considers belief in God as accepting an irrational ‘God Hypothesis” and intellectual high treason which leads to bigotry, intolerance, oppression, child abuse, arrogance, homophobia, abortion-clinic bombings, violence against women, war, suicide bombings, and educational systems that teach ignorance when it comes to math and science.
And if believers in the Christian God feels stunned by this professor, they would be further shocked if they happen to read other writings of modern atheists like: Daniel Dennett’s “BREAKING THE SPELL: RELIGION AS A NATURAL PHENOMENON’; Sam Harris’ “ LETTER TO A CHRISTIAN NATION” ; and Christopher Hutchins’ “GOD IS NOT GREAT: HOW RELIGION POISONS EVERYTHING.” They all believe that the Christian’s claim to God-inspired and induced morality is not necessarily superior to that of most atheists hence the God factor appears to have no significance in the choices we make in life.
Evolutionary biologists and a lot of scientists wonder why humans are too ‘gullible’ to commit to religious beliefs they think can’t be subjected to scientific investigation, and taking a cue from their guru, Charles Darwin, they have studiously ignored the whole issue of God. But the trend is gradually changing especially after a few evolutionary biologists and neuroscientists decided to find empirical ways to study the religious phenomenon. The results emerging from the realm of science now is making some of them see religion as a real ‘evolutionary puzzle’. Though religious belief and behavior seem to be at odds with everything evolutionary biology holds dear, some biologists have identified some ways in which religion might provide some degree of evolutionary fitness and benefit.
In a special report by NEW SCIENTIST in January 2006, some sociological studies showed that compared with non-religious people, the actively religious are happier, live longer, suffer fewer physical and mental illnesses, and recover faster from medical interventions such as surgery. Emil Durkheim one of the founding fathers of modern sociology and many others believes that religion also acts as a kind of social glue that holds society together. This also helps in shaping the moral foundations of the society like the justice system that helps to check excesses in behaviour that can threaten the cohesion of the society. It is now known that he religious rituals and shared community activities help in bonding societies by triggering the release of endorphins (brain’s natural opioids ) which create a mild ‘high’ which may explain why religious people tend to be happy. Endorphins also tune up the immune system which explains why religious people are healthier and the sense of community provides comfort to the suffering.
Belief in God and the healing power of faith may seem irrational and intangible until you have the privilege of looking inside the brain using PET scans. Belief in the widest sense is primarily a product of either rationality or reasoning on one hand and emotional –a sort of gut reaction. Though mental accent is important, oftentimes people don’t practically think belief, they feel belief and that is why biologists have no clue as to why people believe in God. Evidence available from studying placebo-treated pain has shown that belief is actually a conscious, rational process- a kissing cousin to expectation. And further evidence from behavioral studies published by The Lancet (vol. 366, page 211) seems to bolster this. It was observed that those who prayed for themselves or knew that family and friends are praying for them seem to produce positive results than those who were secretly prayed for.
Belief, -be it in God, medicine or whatever- slightly alters our emotional state just as the feeling of joy has chemical effects on the brain and is thought to be mediated by neurotransmitters like dopamine and serotonin that mediate other emotions. A scientist has found a variant of a gene called VMAT2 that may be associated with greater spirituality. Though the picture is still very hazy to some scientists, the evidence on ground suggests the fact that belief is real and has measurable effects in our brains and this reality can’t be denied. More intriguingly, these effects have the potential to influence the outcome of events beyond belief in God alone. For instance belief in self or one’s own abilities actually help one achieve personal goals and success in life’s endeavors can be a self-fulfilling prophecy that stems from one’s self belief. Believers also have greater activity in their brains’ right hemisphere which is used for creativity and lateral thinking –making connections with disparate concepts.
For any sincere Christian in our contemporary world, keeping faith in God has become a herculean task especially those who are exposed to all the moving arguments against God and organized Christian religion which has not made as much impact as expected. I still admire and envy those Christians who remain unshakable in their faith in God in times like this; they just simply believe until they encounter those armed with arguments that counter everything they have believed. From my encounters and interactions with a lot of Nigerians on the net and from their comments on my previous writings posted on Nigerian websites, I have come to reckon though painfully that a lot of Nigerians have become atheists, non-theists, agnostics and secular humanists. Atheism is no longer a phenomenon in Europe for Africans and especially a sizeable portion of intelligent and brilliant Nigerians have joined the train too.
For most Europeans, a belief in God may have given way to a belief in democracy, law and human rights, but some analysts still believe that the Almighty is source of the secular freedom that is now pervasive. Way back in the early stages of World War 1, the poet C.J. Squire observed that there was no escaping God:
God heard the embattled nations sing and shout:
“Gott strafe England”-“God save the king”-,
“God this”-“God that”-and “God the other thing”.
“My God,” said God, “I’ve got my work cut out.”
Just a couple of decades down the line, these same nations in Europe that called on God have become liberal and secular believing that civilization had reached a plane higher than the one constructed on the ‘crude certainties of religion’. The Judaeo-Christian God’s influence in the modern world seem to be waning progressively and many are intent on making HIM extinct like the Greek gods that we now read up in legends and friezes. Yet the inalienable rights espoused and promoted through democracy didn’t originate from man himself, and should you ask anyone where the UN’s Universal Declaration of Human Rights and other human rights charters come from without God, and you not be sure to get a satisfying answer. The objective morality upon which modern societies is built did not exist apart from God for He was the source. And no act was considered wrong in itself, as it was wrong because God said so…in the Bible.
When excavations of the mulch of generations of practice, assumption, agnosticism and unchallenged belief in secularism are made, one will still be able to see the deep-rooted notions of wrong and right, of freedom, liberty and natural rights which we hold sacredly in post-modern societies. That was why Martin Luther King would pursue civil rights for blacks because they were God-given and he was willing to place his life in harm’s way like Jesus Christ had done thousands of years in Palestine. And interestingly, Jesus Christ is not a European yet European nations built their societies on the ideals he preached and lived out .African nations are suffering variously due to failure to enshrine democracy and the principles of justice, fairness and equity in our societies and religion is lame without these moral ideals.
In as much as I subscribe to the scientific explanations of life’s reality, I still find as unacceptable to translation of science to the realm of religion whose custodians-scientists- make proclamations on human rights etc that empirical learning cannot altogether justify. For science or other material creations really can’t fill that God-shaped hole in the heart and soul of every created human being on earth. There is still a part of us that longs ultimately for that unknowable mystery at the heart of our very existence, and that is what God is even though science and secular philosophy think it is a delusion; a God Hypothesis! The lack of awe and reverence for God certainly has been a major bane of modern living in our contemporary world, and any civilization that pushes God to the fringes should be willing to face the travails that come with such declared ‘obituary of God”.
St. Augustine of Hippo , one of Africa’s greatest minds concluded after his long and tortuous journey in the search for the truth about God concluded that we all remain restless until we ‘re-unite’ with God who is our true essence. This truth is one the most enduring legacies that an African has ever left for posterity with its universal ramification. Yet this realization of God happens within for Jesus had declared centuries past that ‘the kingdom of God is within you’- a truth that the Great Russian Writer, Tolstoy discovered and imbibed.
As I conclude this long treatise, it would be instructive to mention that our modern lifestyle of perpetual cycle of activities and noise has been a major deterrent to encountering God in the quietness of our soul. When we truly settle down and determine to seek God without filling the interlude with ‘something’, we might encounter Him since we are not so far off from Him after all. Like Angelus Silesius said, “The voice of God is heard: Listen within and seek; were you always but silent, He’s never cease to speak.”
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The author, Felix Abrahams Obi is a Physiotherapist and Poet who lives and works in Abuja Nigeria and can be reached by email via halal3k@yahoo.com and www.nuggetz4life.blogspot.com

WETIN LENTEN SEASON MEAN SEF…?

2009-03-03T02:13:00.000-08:00

WETIN LENTEN SEASON MEAN SEF…?
By Felix Abrahams Obi
March 2, 2009

It was Wednesday evening and I had just closed from work, and was running late to church for the midweek service. As I emerged from Oakland Centre along Aguiyi Ironsi Street in Maitama, I saw, we ran into a lock jam of flashy cars doubly parked such that the street was heckled from all sides leaving a tiny space for motorists to wade through. Parishioners of Holy Trinity Catholic Church Maitama were the ‘culprits’ and like other Catholics and orthodox Christians across the globe, they were in church for the Ash Wednesday service to commemorate the beginning of the Lenten season.

We’re transfixed at the same spot for a while and angry and frustrated motorists blared their car horns recklessly, trying to wriggle their way out of the traffic mess. Since my destination was Merit House which was a pole away, I alighted from the cab, and decided to walk down to church. As I passed the gate of this beautiful cathedral, I met parishioners who were emerging from the church with ashy cross signs on their foreheads which the priest had marked with a ‘mud of ash’. It was the cross signs on the forehead of the faithful Catholics that reminded me that we’ve actually started the 40-day period of lent which I have not celebrated since I became a ‘Pentecostal’ Christian over a decade ago.

With nostalgia I remembered how as an Altar Boy, I served the reverend fathers at the altar during the officiating of the mass from age nine (9) till my late teens. The Lenten period was a time that we had the most of celebrations. We will burn the palm fronds that were used on the Palm Sunday and mix the ash with water to form a muddy paste which was used on Ash Wednesday; a day we’re reminded that we’re made from mud and someday we’ll take our last breathe and will finally be committed to mother earth. It’s a stunning reality that self-delusion often helps us to not admit, but we can’t run away from such reality though.

Lent is traditionally a time of preparation for Easter to focus on repentance, often through prayer and fasting and make ‘resolutions’ such as abstaining from alcohol, meat, sex, television, or other pleasurable engagements. And each Friday we’d attend the ‘Stations of the Cross’: a ‘mock’ replay of the agony and sufferings that Jesus experienced before he was crucified. Oftentimes women will wail and lament at the various stops especially the three points were Jesus fell under the weight of the cross along the jagged terrain as he made the ascent to Calvary. The men will grit their teeth, and fold their hands across their shoulders, and on Good Friday, some of the men will ‘help’ Jesus carry and bear his cross like Simon Cyrene did…and more people will wail and cry due to the deep emotions that reflections of the suffering of Jesus often evokes in the hearts of Christians.

And once Holy Week advances, we become more pious and solemn as we attend church on Holy Thursday and Good Friday…and rest on ‘Good Saturday’; waiting for Jesus to lie in state waiting to break out from the tomb on Easter Sunday…and we shout hurray! So by Easter Monday, the celebratory mood continues and after the Easter holidays, life reverts back to the old schedule and we renounce our 40-day resolutions and go back to our former ways of life. For the one who abstained from alcohol, we hit the bars again and start a repeat the earlier motions till another lent catches up with us and we feel constrained to start another period of fast and all.

At least for the orthodox Christian believer, Lent often evokes some degree of repentance and deep thinking and reflections about life on earth. But the Pentecostal Christian has no seasons to hallow and reverence. In a bid to strip the churches of every toga of tradition, Pentecostal and charismatic churches often don’t join other Christians to observe the lent or advent, and only wait for Easter or Christmas to fully evolve each year. But observing the lent as an individual of group of Christians has a lot of merit so long as the real essence of the season is brought to the fore: repentance and renewal. A time to renew and deepens one’s relationship with God, and meditate on how it will impact on one’s lifestyle and relationship with others.

Lent should not just be a period of sober reflections, repentance and abstinence only. Rather our lives should be impacted on deeply by the events that centre on the Passion of the Christ and let it be translated to the expression of genuine love and care for others which Jesus exemplified. If not, it will still be another cyclical ritual that is repeated per annum…with no eternal results!

©Felix Abrahams Obi
www.nuggetz4life.blogspot.com

How God Rocks....!

2009-02-24T05:12:00.000-08:00

How God Rocks....!
By Felix Abrahams Obi
24/02/2009
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Yesterday evening after a long period of allowing my Bible lie in limbo, I dusted it and started reading again. For no reason to pin my staking nails on, I just let Abuja dust form layers on my 'Study' Bible for a pretty long time. Fact of the matter is, you can actually tag along and 'survive' by going to church and doing all the activities: sing, dance, shout, and do what others are doing...and are we not all acting unscripted movies in church in some way, though they aint been premiered in Hollywood, or our famed Nollywood. With Bollywood eating all the Oscars with Slumdog Millionnaire we can be certain that someday, with the help of Hollywood's producers, our Nollywood actors.actresses can nudge up some oscars...sorry digressing abeg!So lastnight in the quietness of my room, I opened up my Bible and a quick reference to Jeremiah 9 saw me flip the pages backwards and I landed on verses 22-24 and boy it came on fresh like never before. It was as though the verses x-rayed and analyzed the 3 top influencers of history. They make the celebrity pages. They are the rennaiscent men and women that the media use to sell their tabloids, mags and all.
Come to think of it, the top 3 groups that make the news are:1. The wizkids, music superstars, artists,models and biz wizards ( wise men/women)2. The Poilitical heavyweights and Power brokers ( men& women of Might)3. The Fortune 500 biz owners and Corporate moguls ( super rich men/women)
We all aspire to make it to the headlines either thro the exploitation and deployment of our artistic talents, or we make it in business and become super rich, or we call the shots in government and our words become as powerful as the rays of the sun that shape weather and dictate the tides and seasons. We all long to be ' up there' and be counted as the wise, powerful and rich. It's human nature, and it's not an abomination to make it to the top.But buttom line is, if all we aspire to do is make it to the top of the corporate ladder, or have our songs,books,paintings, artworks etc make it to the best selling list, or become influential and powerful in the sociopolitical arena of life. That's what the business schools help us to achieve. That's why we long to be part of the political caucauses that are tagged the 'king makers' and majority party. For you can make all the money, and make the tabloids' headlines, but if you're not considered powerful and able to influence government's policies and all, you wont be so fulfilled. Hence, the ultimate for the 'Wise' and 'Rich' is to join the league of the 'Mighty". That's in sync Sigmund Freud's Hierachy of needs, and do we not all want to be wise, rich and powerful in all sincerity?
As I read my Bible last night, I realized that society aint changed much, and the celebrities of yesterday are not so different from the ones we have today for they all belong to any of the 3 categories, whether you finf them at Hollywood,Wall Street,Silicon Valley, or at Harvard. And all these gurus and experts all will like to call the shots politically and it doesn't matter if you find them at Nigeria's Aso Rock, or White House and Capitol Hill. Wisdom separates you from the bunch; Riches lift you above the park; but Power makes you more Powerful!
While acknowledging all these, God in his own infinte wisdom, riches and might has a different counsel. He wants both the wise, rich and powerful of this world to just brag and boast about one thing: Their individual KNOWLEDGE & UNDERSTANDING of who GOD is. And what struck me was that God didn't condemn or blacklist anyone who aspires to be wise, rich and powerful.For in spite of all that we'd achieve in our professional career, net worth in terms of money and assets, and even political achievements, God still expects us to know him deeply and intimately. And the minimum array of all his enviable attributes he has wants us to showcase are basically, his lovingkindness, his sense of justice, and his high moral sense and integrity that he calls righteousness.
The wise ones are superstars are often seen as proud but God wants the wise to be loving and kind.The rich can often be brash and insensitive but God would want that to be toned by the display of sense of justice and fairness. And for the powerful and mighty, God expects that he/she will modulate the power of influence with a sense of righteousness. And I wondered how the world would be if for a start, the Christian who professes to know God starts becoming bastions of love and kindness because they are a people who ahve a sense justice because they have exchanged their weaknesses and faults with God's righteousness as preached from the pulpits. Now I know it's really simple to have the world change 'over night' but I wonder if it will really start with me, or someone else. But the truth be told, the world will respect the Christian more...when they can identify the Christian as one who is loving, merciful,kind and displays intergrity in all his dealings with fellow humans!
Excursion: Jeremiah 9:23-24
(NIV Translation)
This is what the LORD says:Let not the wise man boast of his wisdom or the strong man boast of his strength or the rich man boast of his riches,but let him who boasts boast about this: that he understands and knows me, that I am the LORD, who exercises kindness, justice and righteousness on earth, for in these I delight, declares the LORD...........................
(Message Translation)
"Don't let the wise brag of their wisdom. Don't let heroes brag of their exploits. Don't let the rich brag of their riches. If you brag, brag of this and this only: That you understand and know me. I'm God, and I act in loyal love. I do what's right and set things right and fair, and delight in those who do the same things. These are my trademarks." God's Decree.
by Felix Abrahams Obiwww.nuggetz4life.blogspot.com

Does Little Miss Precious Trust Me?

2009-02-19T08:22:00.000-08:00

Does Little Miss Precious Trust Me?
© Felix Abrahams Obi
19th February 2009
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I once heard in the mouth of a trusted friend that “expectation is the mother of all disappointments” and the lesson sank in well for I had reneged on an earlier promise I had made, or was it that I didn’t make the promise let alone seek for ways to fulfill it? For sure am wary of making any promises to friends and family, and would prefer to rather ‘take them by surprise’ in order to be canonized as a generous man. For there have been times I felt constrained to make a promise, only to be restrained from keeping the promise fulfilled due to the usual unforeseen and excusable circumstances.

Stuck with this dilemma, what would the son of man do when an 8-year old little girl snatches a promise from my mouth and runs with it? This little girl is my neighbour’s daughter and her name sounds like a promise fulfilled; Miss Precious! I like to obey the exhortation which Jesus gave his disciples when they shouted back at the naughty little nice kids that came around their Rabbi. He urged them not to turn kids away from him since they were the custodians or rather true owners of God’s kingdom. So in my little way, I allow kids to explore and inhabit a special place in my heart if they so wished. And I have learnt the basic tenets of friendship from kids…and they’ve been wonderful friends.
Couple of months back my neighbours’ kids had their way into my living room…sorry we used to call it parlour until we all became westernized in recent times. I had kept my door ajar and they waltzed in gaily like ballet dancers. One rushed to grab my acoustic guitar- which is more like a monument since I can only play the CFG chord; another made for my animal carvings that I ‘exported’ from Nairobi. Unlike others, little Miss Precious’ eyes went for my books. She must have been wowed by the array of books on my shelf. A little argument ensued when I refused to pull out the books for her to glance through. “Uncle, I said I want to read your book noooowwww!” she had insisted when I told her the books were too advanced for her.

I browsed through my library and all I could see were religious and motivational books, counseling books, anthologies of poetry and short stories, novels and others with an intellectual tilt that would register as black and white dots on her brain cells.
Finally, I saw a children’s novel by a writer friend which I gave her, and she agreed to leave with her friends. Few days after, she met me at my apartment’s entrance. ‘Uncle I have finished that book…and I want another one’. Sounding apologetic, I said, “My dear, I don’t have books for little children” But as much as I tried to dissuade her, my little friend will not give up. So we struck a deal before the Christmas that I will buy a story book for her and that was the beginning of my woes. I was as free as a bird floating in the vast space until she came back from the East with her folks after the New Year and her justifiable ranting heightened.
And each morning when our paths crossed while setting out to work, she’d quiz and remind me of my promise. I had a myriad of excuses: I closed late from work; I went on official trip outside Abuja; I was too busy to go to a bookshop; I don’t have the time…to buy one , …emmm etc. Not satisfied with my hollow defense she’d quip “Uncle but you said, you’ll buy me the story book last week…!”
Two weeks ago, I went to Integrity Bookshop at Emab Plaza in Wuse 2, Abuja to look for a ‘storybook’ for my little friend, Precious. I searched through their children’s section but none clicked with my heart for I wanted not just a story book that will have pictures and words. I wanted one that will stir her intellectual curiosity and also leave a lasting memory in her subconscious for the years ahead. I didn’t think twice when the bookshop assistant brought a biography of Mother Theresa of Calcutta for me to consider having disqualified several other children titles they’d brought earlier.
With a glint in my eyes, I browsed through the colorful, well-illustrated and graphic pages. There was an ‘aha’ feeling in me and a smirk in my mouth for the story of this legendary prose was written in free-flowing prose.
The price was reasonable and with joy, I paid to the cashier and claimed the book as mine for just a night till Miss Precious nudges and pokes me again to fulfill my promise. I headed back home and through out that night, I poured through the pages and was amazed that all I could sketch before was a line or stroke of Mother Theresa’s life. And save for the nudging and constant reminder by Miss Precious, I may never have read the story of Mother Theresa who lived and died in India, serving the poor, disparaged, sick and vulnerable people with empathy and devotion.
With sure steps, I knocked at their door and gave the storybook to Precious’ elder sister. The next morning, she saw me again, and this time she was full of smiles and said profusely, “Uncle thank you for the book’. She nodded in affirmation when I asked if she liked the book. She promised not to disturb me again for another storybook but at the back of my mind, I felt she might ask for a storybook yet again. For when the intellect becomes curious at a tender age, there is no limit to its voraciousness. It happened to me after I read Eze Goes to School, Bayo Goes to School, One Week One Trouble, Samankwe and the Highway Robbers, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finns…and the list goes.
Two weeks have passed and Miss Precious has not bugged, poked or worried me about getting another story book. Could it be that she is still savouring the literary juices that the Muse had hidden in the pages of her storybook? Or has she tested and proven that I can be trusted to supply another storybook without a war raging between us? Someone said trust is built by actions, and not words…maybe my action have finally swallowed up my many words that didn’t fulfill the storybook promise!

www.nuggetz4life.blogspot.com

25 things you don't know about me except i told you

2009-02-17T04:55:00.000-08:00

25 Things U wont know about me except I told you....by Felix Obi

1.One of the first things that I became conscious of as a toddler was the death of my dad…and I made frequent trips to his grave then, and I still can’t imagine what he looked like since he took no pictures and I have no memory of him.
2. I Longed so much to have a younger brother/sister until I reckoned that a widow needed another husband to have a legitimate child…so my cousins became my younger siblings by default.
3.As a kid in my village, I liked to watch the sun rise, and set and walked alone at nights just to gaze at the moon , and often strolled into the bush just to chill out all alone, and savor the silence under the boughs of a large Iroko tree...kai, I still no know why oooh!
4.The 1st time I recited the popular poem, “ My Mother”, publicly was in my primary 3 but I flunked and forgot the lines I had rehearsed…and out of shame I cried because my big and favorite cousin had heeded my invite and I disappointed him...boy I flunked b4 my many fans...lol!
5.The 1st poem I wrote was titled “The Lonely Cadaver”: it's an ode to the dead human body that we dissected and dismembered during our anatomy classes at Bayero University Kano…d cadaver made us not feel like cannibals when we ate meat and the poem scared those who read it then but I’ve written over 100 poems now !
6.As a kid I didn’t know the difference between fictional novels and reality until when I grew up to reckon that a fictional novel was the creation of the reality played out in the mind of the author...so am at home imagining things!
7.I began writing as a primary 5 kid when I started exchanging letters with a childhood buddy, Uzoma Ohajuru till we completed secondary school…but we lost touch since then!
8.My secondary school classmates nicknamed me “Mallam Adamu”, and they were shocked when against all permutation and my expectations, I landed as an undergraduate in Kano to fulfill their ‘prophecies”. All they could say was ‘Felix has gone to join his ‘Hausa brothers’ and funny enough, I used to squat to eat as a kid like my Hausa brothers indeed.
9.Even Igbos have doubted that I am a full-blooded Igbo man, and I have had to prove that over and again to curious friends and foes who only believed because of my Igbo surname…OBI!
10.I couldn’t attend Igbo students meetings at Bayero University Kano cos I couldn’t make constructive sentences before an Igbo audience or pray in Igbo, and lately I have bought an Igbo Bible, dictionary, folk tales and anthology of Igbo proverbs to help me out.
11.I used to be concerned about my complex and split personality when life should be so simple and straight ‘cos I am construed as a different person to different people and at different times: a recluse/extrovert, a saint/villain, laidback- monk/fun-lover, formal/easygoing…and am comfortable in either body types or personalities!
12.I was fascinated by the life of scientists and dreamt of being a Nuclear Scientist while in secondary school; and the human brain intrigued me as an undergraduate; now am learning to study and understand human behavior and the intrigues we pull.
13.I once toyed with transcendental meditation, metaphysics, mysticism, hypnosis and other extrasensory phenomenon, and questioned organized religion till I became a true convert...and no longer confused about d relaity of God and the veracity of the Bible!
14.I can get goose-bumps listening to the sounds of OJA (an Igbo Flute) and the notes of stringed instruments like an acoustic guitar or harp can cause my eyelids to close in pleasure.
15.I love to dance a lot and have shocked those who assumed I am too dignified to shuffle my feet, without knowing I come from the long line of a family of good dancers and folklorists.
16.As a teenager I was tagged as a dotted letter (i) that can easily be broken cos I was lanky and lacked flesh at the right places…and God must have heard my prayers and now bloated in weight, I ‘ve been praying for a weight reversal.
17.I wanted to be a monk as a teenager but changed my mind later; and friends have often called me a pastor but I have always spawned the idea but don’t know how long I will run away from being called one.
18.A gay guy once made overtures to woo me at Millennium Park Abuja and I ‘led’ him on for a while until he got tired and stopped calling my phone…and it amused me that a guy found me as attractive like ladies are…!
19.Though considered quiet as a kid, it didn’t keep me off some mischief that earned me strokes of the cane, and even a slap from the school headmaster after encounters with girls…or women!
20.Don’t know why but, I have had nocturnal tendencies and feel more alert at night, and a late sleeper. Since my campus days, I still prefer to wash my clothes in the wee hours of the morning and my psychiatry lecturer had termed it a kind of obsessive-compulsive behavior…but I cared less!
21.As a kid I used to bite and lick my lower lip; never wanted to have beards so I pulled the shoots until they overwhelmed me and shaving is still one cross I am constrained to carry.
22.I have a bad sleeping habit; usually prefer to sleep on the floor, or across the breath rather than the length of the bed and I don’t plan for sleep...it just happens usually while am trying to write or read and hardly wears my pajamas.
23.I love to play the guitar but regret dropping out of my guitar classes 4d love of anatomy in med school…so I the much I can do now is to strum a virtual and unseen guitar when a song gets into my soul.
24.I have deep respect and admiration for women and have never slapped or beaten a woman b4 ‘cos as a kid, an Uncle we feared and respected so much had warned the boys not to ever hit a girl even when her words or misbehavior qualify her to receive the beating of her life…I pray I don’t lose my cool someday…oh Lord!
25.I hate to admit it, but intelligent, strong-willed, assertive, ambitious, somewhat difficult, highly artistic, complex and unusual girls have a way of thawing my heart, and it’s a battle that I am determined to not lose by the help of Jah Jehovah!

Sikiru Adepoju: The Nigerian Drummer who won another Grammy

2009-02-13T02:01:00.000-08:00

SIKIRU ADEPOJU: THE NIGERIAN PERCUSSIONIST WHO WON ANOTHER GRAMMY
By Felix Abrahams Obi
The 2009 Grammy Awards have come and gone with the usual fanfare and pomp. The brief detention of rising pop R&B star, Chris Brown over an alleged assault of his superstar girlfriend, Rihana didn’t dampen the gay mood for the Grammy generates its own glamour and ‘effizy’ that linger long after the winners and losers have headed back to their respective bases. Lil Wayne swept away more awards than any other artist to confirm that he’s finally arrived as a Big Boy rapper; no longer overshadowed by Kanye West and other superstars in the Hip-hop scene even though his trousers slide waggle down his butts like the self-conscious teenager who is intent on making an impression on the streets.
My eyes roved and scanned the list of awardees hoping I would see a prominent Nigerian musician on the shortlist. Since our Naija hip-hop artists like Tu Face, P Square, Timaya, Sound Sultan, Asha, Banky W, Nigga Raw, Kc Presh, Dare Art Alade, were obviously absent from the preliminary nomination list, so I would have torn the cloak over the heavens in high praise had angels been able to smuggle in their names with a miraculous stroke of an indelible pen. If our Nollywood movies are rated the 3rd most viewed films across the globe, our wish as Naija music fans to see our music climb to a higher pedestal isn’t misplaced to say the least. Even with the profuse injection of Naija local content into our contemporary music albums, our best Naija hip-hop artists are still a mere silhouette of their American counterparts for whom the Grammy’s are made for. We can only be second best in such contests where the rhythm is hip-hop, and the rap song tailor-made for an English-speaking audience that expects the right slurs and interjection with curse words and slangs that have is alien to our culture.
A few weeks ago, our female crooner and world music exponent, Asa held a sold out concert in New York during her first US tour. She has toured Japan where her songs are celebrated, and her popularity in Western Europe has been soaring, and her tour schedules are so tight that one hardly reckons that Asa was a little over a year ago, a proper Naija girl who learned how to strum her guitar from Peter King in Lagos. Another Naija singer, Ayo has been making waves across Europe with her eclectic sounds and though she has some German genes in her blood, her Naija identity is not mistaken, and they have been hoisting Naija music flag for the world to see. They may not win a Grammy anytime soon, but their influence has crossed the boundaries of Africa and has won the admiration of people across the globe.
But SIKIRU ADEPOJU; an obscure and uncelebrated Naija percussionist made Nigeria proud at the Grammys as part of the GLOBAL DRUM PROJECT quartet that beat the world class SOWETO GOSPEL CHOIR to win the award for the world music category. The group made up of four percussionists Mickey Hart, Zakir Hussain, Giovanni Hidalgo and Sikiru Adepoju came into prominence in 1991 when the Planet Drum’s self-titled album broke the Billboard World Music Chart and remained number one for 26 weeks, and also received the Grammy for Best World Music Album; the first Grammy ever awarded in this category.
Sikiru Adepoju has been called ‘ the Mozart of the talking drum’ and has taken his mastery of Yoruba talking drum and other indigenous percussion instruments ( dundun, gudugudu, gome, omelet, shekere) to a world class level. But how many people would believe that Sikiru learned the art of drumming from his late father in his Eruwa village in Western Nigeria and never felt he should abandon his musical heritage to embrace western music hook line and sinker. He also played with the miliki maestro Chief Ebenezer Obey until 1985 when late I.K. Dairo’s nephew and afrobeat artist, O.J. Ekemode took him on a US tour. He would later perfect his drumming skills under the tutelage of the late Babatunde Olatunji, the world-renowned percussionist and Naija artist who is widely-acclaimed as the first to release an album in the ‘world music’ category and reputedly influenced musicians like Carlos Santana, Mickey Hart, John Coltrane and Bob Dylan. Like Fela the freedom fighter, Babs Olatunji also fought for the rights of Africans during the civil rights movement and even performed at the inauguration of President John F. Kennedy and his albums have sold more than 5 million copies.
Sikiru Adepoju and his fellow musicians at the Global Drum Project are poised to elevate the traditional rhythms of the world to an enviable level and have fused the dance and rhythms of the ancient with the sounds of the modern world. The traditional rhythms of our forefathers stirred and roused the soul and spirit and rejuvenated the body and were the medium through which people of yore years in Africa maintained the healthy balance of their body, soul and spirit. The West appreciates the rhythms of Africa and that is why Ladysmith Black Mambazo, the Soweto Gospel Choir and other artists of South Africa origin have won the hearts of people all over the world, and Grammy awards too. Other world music artists of West African descent like Benin Republic-born Angelique Kidjo, Senegal-born Youssof Ndour and Malian Salif Keita among others, have made the world appreciate and respect the rhythms of Africa and have made our forefathers proud and ensured that African sounds are not considered to the classical rhythms of the Western world.
There are many other Sikiru Adepojus who masterfully play the flute, shekere, gongs, xylophones and drums in our Nigerian villages, slums and suburbs but however feel inferior because the contemporary Nigerian society appreciates little of our indigenous music and traditional rhythms. They feel inferior and out of place because they are excluded from the Star Mega Jams, MTN Campus Shows, the GLO Music Shows, and other corporately-sponsored music shows in Nigeria. Yet time and again, the evidence of history and common sense have proven that Nigerian and African rhythms are by no known standards inferior to music from any other part of the world. Fela Kuti proved that by jettisoning his classical training in western music to create Afro beat music which the world respects till date. Kunle Ayo is dazzling jazz music audiences from his base in South Africa with his authentic fusion of jazz chords with his authentic and indigenous Yoruba sounds.
So the world awaits another Sikiru that talks and sings with the drum. We await a Mallam Adamu from Kano or Katsina who would play his ‘goje’ and blow his long Hausa flute to the delight of audiences around the world. Yea the world awaits an Emeka Okonkwo who skillfully plays the hand-held xylophone and blows the Oja till goose bumps rise from the skins of audiences and music connoisseurs across the world. We need not wait till the next Grammy to get a stamp of approval on the desirability of our indigenous music; it is authentic, sublimely artistic and wholesome and deeply spiritual. It is ours!
(Felix Abrahams Obi is a poet and folk music aficionado based in Abuja).

The Numbing Silence of a Father

2009-02-12T02:09:00.000-08:00

THE NUMBING SILENCE OF A FATHER
By Felix Abrahams C. Obi
……………………………….
The two were an inseparable pair that no one else could fathom the intensity of the bond of intimacy that existed between them. Each morning after his closest buddies rose from their beds, they always noticed that his cover clothes would lay rumpled at a corner, without any sight of him in the neighborhood. Time and again, they observed that nothing could break this rhythm that his body and soul had become so attuned to, and they often exchanged glances at each other when he joined them for breakfast. He told them he always had an early morning chat with his father, but courtesy restrained them from stowing away to eavesdrop into the father-son daily tête-à-tête.
His 12 closest buddies could only speculate and when they did talk about it among themselves, it was with such uncertainty that their chat ended in hushed silence. Yet he was such an openly transparent guy that hid nothing from them, and though they never had seen his father before, his stories had painted a full-length picture of him in their minds. Their curiosity transmuted into an envy which held them captive for a long stretch of time until one fateful day, when they broke the silence. They wanted to meet his father…but he told them that he was a true representation of his father…his person, his character…his carbon copy that any human being can feel, touch and interact with. That was too stunning a reality their human intellect could grasp.
To their chagrin, he told them that his father, was also their father save that they never had known he was their brother as well. He was the very first son to be begotten by their father. Thus he taught them how to talk to his/their father ‘who art in heaven…” and that would become one of the most revolutionary realities that would change their life forever. That Elohim;God the creator of all that is seen and unseen, the one who lives beyond the reach of mind, the one who is high and lofty can be called their father! Yet they doubted this must be too good to be true for no one has ever seen God or touched him, let alone behold his face. Could this unseen and unreachable God transform into a father figure to mere mortals?
The weeks stretched into months and they watched him do amazing things; ears popped open, twisted limbs straightened out, calloused tongues loosened to articulate speech, sealed up eyelids tore open to see the smile of the sun, and dead men and women heard his quaking voice and ran back to join the living on the earth. None had seen anything like this, and each time they quizzed him, all they heard was that his father had told him such would happen during their daily conversations.
But a day came when his father’s voice was muted. His buddies saw sweat break out from the pores on his creased and pain-sculpted face. His agony was too much to bear for his father had seemingly blocked his ears. That was the greatest tragedy that he least had anticipated. The same father who had announced publicly and said, “This is my beloved son, in whom I am well-pleased” has spurned the yearning of his beloved son. It was the darkest of nights that the highest intensity of the sun’s rays could not illumine. And when the father could not heed his cry and longing for their usual conversation that he ‘lost hope’ and gave up the ghost…it was an eerie silence!
………………………………
“O God, you are my God, earnestly I seek you; my soul thirsts for you, my body longs for you, in a dry and weary land where there is no water. I have seen you in the sanctuary and beheld your power and your glory. For your love is better than life…”

My Sweet Sixteen-Year Old Valentine

2009-02-11T08:27:00.000-08:00

MY SWEET 16-YEAR OLD VALENTINE
By Felix Abrahams Obi

Her eyes glistened and glowed, and her face shone with such radiance as of the smile of the early morning sun. Her eyes met mine and didn’t blink out of shyness and rather than look down like other damsels, she smiled gaily at me. Not sure I returned her smile but she innocently giggled at the sight of me. How could I flirt with an under aged, still under care of matrons and mistresses in her school? She was only a sweet 16, and her school uniform did little to hide her social identity even though she was seen as a senior girl like her SSS 3 classmates. I didn’t ask for her name for before I left her all-females secondary school where I had attended an official function. My suit was new and I had the appearance of a typical ‘uncle’ who looked too serious-minded to return the flirtatious smile of a teenage girl who was generation behind mine…and separated by a decade-long life’s journey!
Valentine day was a few weeks ahead and being new in the city, I had no plans for any celebrations and had no special Val in sight. So I thought until I was roused from my self-delusion by a willing emissary; another teenage girl and close relative of mine whom I loved so much. The message was explicitly unambiguous and the delivery was apt and well-aimed that my heart was not stung by the bug of denial. The sweet sixteen wants me as her Val for she considered me mature enough to understand her wishes unlike the ‘childish and immature secondary school boys’ who have been trying to woo her. It was a challenge I was least prepared to face. I had wanted another quiet Valentine Day but this young girl has chosen to break into my world.
To save my face, I hit a gift shop and bought her a box of chocolates based on the counsel of her emissary and cupid-conspirator. Being too cautious as avoid being tagged a “cradle snatcher’ and pedophile, I resisted the urge to buy a romantic card spattered with red roses, and I muzzled and gagged the Muse within who schemed to write a romantic ballad for her. I knew her dad, and was eager to erase any suspicions or leave a thread that can serve as an alibi against my case when summoned before the court of human opinion. I was certain she’d be quieted by my aloofness and seeming disinterest in her. But I was mistaken in my judgment for she held to her forwardness and her pristine smiles and cupid notes didn’t cease thereafter.
My escape came when I was offered a job in another town, far-flung from my young admirer and I assumed I had won. But in my waking moments, pictures of her smiles wafted through my mind, and consumed my soul. I couldn’t explain the intensity of power she exerted from a distance and after fighting the battle within, I sought for her but no sounding machine could locate her. The GSM waves have not become ubiquitous in Nigeria then, and my well-scripted letter that NIPOST was to deliver to her must have been lost in transit. I am certain that had she received it, a herald would have knocked at my door with a missive sealed with a tinge of her sunny smile. I ached for a while like the lover who spurned the love from his beloved, who ran into the arms of another in a bid to numb out the pain of unrequited love.
By a stroke of chance orchestrated by destiny, we met again after four years of separation. We sat opposite each other to sip drinks and chat for long hours in a couple of bars and restaurants. We sat on lush green gardens and meadows to talk and lounge for minutes that stretched into hours. We attended social events like two couples chosen and selected by cupid’s rare wisdom. The chasm of distance had been breached and she was within the reach of my arms and heart again. But my sweet sixteen had grown into a woman. Her naivety and innocent smiles had left the tent where she had sheltered years before. She had grown into a beautiful and desirable maiden that kings and princes desired to crown as her royal highness, the queen of their hearts. She evoked stares from men who plumaged and ravaged her veiled but sculpted frame with their ravenous and voracious eyes. She made moving cars screech into an abrupt stop when a man was behind the wheels, and stirred the envy of married women who feared she would maroon the hearts of their husbands.
But hers was a transient visit to the new city and sooner than I had anticipated, her train moved again, and we didn’t get to spend the valentine together, and I have never received another Valentine’s invite from her again. Maybe she has grown wiser over the years and expects that it was the lot of the man to find a Val in her. But in all, she has taught me what it means to have a loyal friend who shows deep interest in another. In a note I read not too long ago, she said these words to me: “You are so special. Thanks for being a part of my life” and I wonder if this is a valedictory note or just another Valentine invite which I would gladly have honored. The note has the past embedded in it, and maybe I could turn it around to wear the cloak of today so it can have a futuristic end.
I should have known better that at 16, a young maiden can be allowed to ride the horse together with an aged prince. And never again would I permit that another should toy with the heart of a sweet16 who knows what she wants from life. I would let her break romantic protocols and lead her to the Prince of her dreams…when Valentine’s bell chimes in her heart again!
(The author is a Poet and Physiotherapist based in Abuja, Nigeria) www.nuggetz4life.blogspot.com

Confessions of An Angry Man like Me

2009-02-03T02:59:00.000-08:00

CONFESSIONS OF AN ANGRY MAN
One night I and my cousins were on our way from the local parish of the Catholic Church where my extended family worshipped. We had attended the block rosary prayer meeting and on our way back, we saw a glimpse of one the female teachers that taught in the local primary school. She was quite short, and the high heeled shoes she wore did little to augment her height and little frame. We had nicknamed her “Bena”; an abbreviation of her first name, which was a mark of disrespect for someone who taught us and deserved respect from the pupils she impacted with knowledge. Then I was a 9 year old lad in Primary 4A while she was the class mistress for Primary 4C pupils.
I had spotted a silhouette of her on the other side of the road and that teased the mischief that resided in the hearts of little children, especially boys, even the seemingly the good and quite ones like I was perceived by significant others. So my lips moved flippantly and I blurted out ‘Benaaaaaaaaaaaa” and my cousins giggled out of amusement. Thinking that darkness would provide the right cover, I screamed to her hearing, “Benaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa” as I felt the sweet rush of pleasure that comes with an act of mischief. She truly heard and keen on catching the culprit, she quickly crossed the tarred road to our side, while I made a quick dash and docked at a dark corner, believing I was safe. Unlike adults who can easily cover up evil; my cousins spilled the beans and told her that I was the one who called her “Bena”.
My naivety made me think I would be forgiven easily. But after the assembly the next morning, the mistress went to report the incident to the headmaster, and I was summoned to his office for a well-deserved punishment. The twelve strokes of cane landed on my buttocks mercilessly and my skin was sore and painful, and with tears streaming down my eyes, I trudged back to my classroom. While I sobbed, one of my cousins who shared same class with me came around to taunt me. He would poke me, and gleefully laugh each time, running away each time I tried to catch up with him. The mockery added salt to the injury and the next time he tried, to jeer at me, I picked up a cutlass (used for cutting the bushy fields in the school) nearby and went after him, but his legs were as fast as a deer’s.
Anger seethed and brewed within my heart and intent on inflicting injury on him and to teach him a lesson, I aimed and flung the knife at him. But I missed the target (his head, obviously) and the cutlass went upwards and struck the florescent lamp in the class which came crashing to the floor with a thud. The pupils who heard the crash of the broken florescent tube let out a shrieking shout and this drew the attention of other kids and our class teachers. My heart skipped as I saw the damage that I had caused. The incident was promptly reported to the headmaster once again and there followed another round of punishment. The quiet, exemplary, well-behaved and religious kid as I was perceived had proven that mischief and anger can berth in any heart when the occasion arises. Fear gripped me when I realized that I could have injured my beloved cousin, and had the knife hit the target, he could possibly have died!
The memory of this incident has remained fresh in my mind for more than two decades now. Once a close friend had wondered if I ever get angry as she has never seem me look provoked and agitated. Besides her, some colleagues and acquaintances seem to conclude that I hardly get angry; believing that I really must have such a gentle heart that hardly could hurt a fly. But such amusing questions only make me giggle within for I know myself more than any friend or acquaintance. I have felt my heart heave and throb when someone or situation had stoked the embers of anger in me. Not intent on inflicting any injuries, I simply would smile and walk away. For each time I get angry, the haunting motion picture of how I nearly killed my cousin plays back to remind me that it is easier for an angry man to kill. This haunting picture which lurks within has done me more much good, by keeping me out of trouble and restraining my hands from picking up a cutlass to strike anyone again.
So I have learnt to walk away quietly with a smile (when I can) from a situation or person that has angered, insulted or mistreated me. Rather than hit back at someone with angry and swear words, it may be better to endure an insult or mocking laughter from another person. There have times that I have felt the surging wave of anger nudge me to avenge and defend my male ego! And for those times when I had allowed anger to froth and break the lead, shock waves have erupted in the hearts and on the faces of those who had assumed that I would always cut the picture of a gentle, quiet, toothless and harmless guy, who just can’t hurt a fly. But they wouldn’t know that a leash within had held me under control for over two decades; the picture of 9-year old lad who flung a cutlass at his cousin. A picture that God has used to tame, nurture, groom and domesticate the animal within me.
Besides anger, there are other vices within me that always seek for expression when given the opportunity or environment to thrive. But I have triumphed each time I allowed self-discipline rule over the expression of vice and other natural but animalistic instincts that are lodged inside the heart of every living human being. Through self-discipline and cultivation of a gentle and controlled heart, the virtues of love, goodness, mercy, kindness, tolerance, empathy, consideration, and care for others are developed into maturity as they become weaved into the fabrics of our personality, and would find expression in our daily interactions with others. These virtues in reality are judged better as expressions of maturity and index of our level of spirituality over and above the possession of scriptural knowledge or the materials riches we have acquired.
In essence, a high level of spiritual enlightenment should reflect in a high degree of virtue and not vices. A powerful man is not known by the amount and degree of power that he can wield over others. Rather a powerful man is known by the amount of power he can wield over himself, and not how much he can do, but what he chooses not to do, even when he can with ease. A powerful ruler is not the one who can oppress others with his enormous power, but the one who knows how much power he has over others, yet chooses to not oppress them. A powerful and strong man is not the one who can easily kill others, but the one who knows and appreciates his power to kills, but chooses to spare his victims and allow them to live and see the break of dawn.
So a cultured and respectful man is the one who has learnt to bring his animal instincts under control, to allow the nature and Spirit and power of God to rule over him. This is the destination that those who truly love and serve God are continuously pursuing, knowing for sure that they are different from the pack and are ambassadors of heaven intent on showcasing a superior lifestyle and character of the Kingdom of God that has rule over their hearts and lives.
Concluding Thoughts:
“Whoever has no rule over his own spirit is like a city that is broken down and without walls.”
(Proverbs 25: 28)
“He who has knowledge spares his words, and a man of understanding is of a calm spirit.”
(Proverbs 17: 27)
“The discretion of a man makes him slow to anger, and his glory is to overlook a transgression.”
(Proverbs 19: 11)
Better to dwell in a corner of a housetop, than in a house shared with a contentious woman. Better to dwell in the wilderness, than with a contentious and angry woman.”
(Proverbs 21:9, 19)
“…to the weak I became as weak, that I might win the weak. I became all things to all men that I might by all means save some.”
(1 Cor. 9:22)
“…if you are without discipline, you are illegitimate and not sons….Now no discipline or chastening seems to be joyful for the present, but painful; nevertheless, afterward it yields the peaceable fruit of righteousness to those who have been trained by it.”
(Hebrews 12:7-11)

When I shook Hands with Bill Gates in Abuja

2009-02-02T05:04:00.000-08:00

WHEN I SHOOK HANDS WITH BILL GATES
By Felix Abrahams Obi

It was one of those normal Monday mornings but I didn’t know it would be a different one. My colleague and I drove down to Transcorp Hilton Hotel, Abuja for the meeting between international donor agencies and the officials of the Federal Ministry of Health who are hosting Mr. Bill Gates-on a 2-day visit to Nigeria. The roll call included the cream la cream and all who call the shots at the strategic level of health policy making in Nigeria: Prof. Babatunde Osotimehin ( Minister of Health), Dr. Iyabo Obasanjo-Bello( Chair,Senate Committee on Health), Hajia Amina Ibrahaim ( Senior Special Assistant to the President on MDGs), Dr . Ali Pate (Executive Director, National Primary Health Care Development Agency), Dr. A. Nasidi (Chairman, Presidential Task Force on Polio Eradication), Prof. Adetokunbo Lucas (Foremost eminent Public Health Professor at Harvard who taught the current Minister of Health at Med school). The international community was represented by the Country Heads of USAID, DFID, JICA, CIDA, World Bank, European Union, WHO, UNDP, UNICEF, Rotary International among others.

The Bornu Hall at Hilton played host to these men and women, and we all sat round the U-shaped table to listen to presentations on the efforts being made at halting the spread of polio among Nigerian children, the challenges and solutions being proffered to address them. Sure the figures are not encouraging as Nigeria is among the only 4 countries in the world that have a large deposit of the wild polio virus, and Nigeria has been ‘exporting’ this deadly virus to other countries within the sub-region.And it was for this reason that Mr. Bill Gates is visiting Nigeria. Yesterday, i.e. Sunday, the 1st of February, 2009, he visited the Sokoto Caliphate and was well received by the Sultan and his cabinet. About 30 trumpeters heralded him to the delight of his entourage. Bill Gates visited Mabera Primary Health Centre, in Sokoto State where he immunized a Nigerian child with the oral polio vaccine as part of the flag off for the first round of Immunization Plus Days (IPDs) for 2009. Interestingly, he observed that the Primary Health Centre had no stock of essential drugs, and was taken aback when he saw midwife go out to buy some drugs for a patient outside the clinic.

I watched Bill Gates with keen interest and wanted to glean a lot from merely observing him. His simplicity awed me. He was dressed in a simple suit, and his brown tie didn’t look much like the product of a top fashion designer. His shoes were simple and not glistening from the work of a shoe-shiner. His address was very apt and he didn’t display the kind of oratory that Americans have popularized in the world of today. He expressed his commitment to help the fight against polio and his speech showed that he had a good grasp of our health situation and how things are run at the national level.I also observed that he is a south paw, and took notes with his left hand as Dr Nasidi, Dr Ali Pate, and Hajia Amina made their presentations; all were in Microsoft Power Point! I watched keenly how a man is watching a presentation being made with a powerful product that his company had produced.

He had no long list of special assistants and sycophants running around to pander to his ego and needs. When he needed a drink, his aid dashed out briefly to get a plastic bottle of diet coke for him from which he took sips. He has this amiable and gentle smile on his face, and when he was offered a Rotary Club-branded yellow face cap, he gladly accepted and wore it to the delight of all in the small hall.I had no camera to take close-up and personal shots of one of the world’s richest man save for a few shots I took with my small mobile phone from where I sat. As this welcome ceremony ended and we broke out for a tea break, I meandered my way to where Bill Gates was exchanging pleasantries with the top dignitaries present. I squeezed myself into the group photos and made sure the camera flash hit and illumined my face when the shutters clicked repeatedly. At least it would be on record that I joined the Country President of Rotary in the picture he took with Bill Gates. But I felt that wasn’t enough to remember today.

When the photo section was over, I walked up to Bill Gates and shook his hands saying; “Welcome to Nigeria”. Yea there were no paparazzi around to take the shot, but it was a dignifying moment to see a great man and shaking his hands, without having to pass through the eye of a needle. His simplicity in any way didn’t mask his greatness and I wonder if the magnitude of his riches has in anyway entered into his head for once as he carried no airs around him. Soon after, he was led Enugu Hall for another session of meeting, and between 14:00- 15:45, he will hold a meeting with State Governors to galvanize support for immunization activities in Nigeria. And between 15:45 and 16: 30, he will round up his trip after holding a Press Conference and interaction with the Nigerian media.

One question I’ve asked myself since I left the meeting and went back to my office is: Will Nigeria as it is be able to produce someone in the ilk of Bill Gates? Will our system allow the development of the creative talents and potential in such an individual? Will our poorly managed and weakened health system be able to provide quality services that can prolong the life of that individual? What if the potential Bill Gates of Nigeria are one of those children who are crawling on all-fours because they had polio, or possibly died from measles infection, or maybe their mother/s died from complications of child birth? Stretching it a bit further, will our educational system be able to nurture and groom the intellectual curiosity of the likes of Bill Gates? Will the curriculum be structured in a way that allows a student to pursue the same dream that fuelled Bill Gates’ intellectualism? And sadly, will the society be able to forgive, and also support a Harvard University Drop-out like Bill Gates to live his dreams without being permanently tagged as a failure in life?

For those who are in doubt, I actually shook hands with Bill Gates because I wanted to know if his fingers were different from mine. The only difference is in the color of the skin. He is white and I am black…but that’s the only difference I saw. Yes he allowed me to shake his hands and it made me see that a great man is also as ordinary as the seemingly insignificant man who walks on the same streets with great men. I guess the difference is that the great man does something great those impacts on both the great and small. Honestly, I really would like to live, and eventually die as a great man, even in my small little way!
By Felix Abrahams Obi
Abuja Nigeria

WHAT IS GOD'S PRESENCE?

2009-01-28T01:31:00.000-08:00

WHAT IS GOD'S PRESENCE?

Today at 10:28am Edit Note Delete
The first time I came across this tiny book called 'The Practice of the Presence of God" was in 2002 when I walked into a bookshop in Lagos. It's a classic book that has made a lot impact in many lives especially for its simplicity and depth of the knowledge of God that the 'author' shared. Though a Catholic, he knew God far deeper than most contemporary christians...catholic,protestant,evangelical,pentecostal...etc and for nearly 300 years this unparalleled classic has given both blessing and instruction to those who can be content with nothing less than knowing God in all His majesty and feeling His loving presence throughout each simple day.Below is an excerpt from the book which I would like to share with you all:

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THE PRESENCE OF GODBy Brother Lawrence (died 12th February, 1691 in Paris){http://www.practicegodspresence.com/brotherlawrence/practicegodspresence08.html}…………………………………………………………………………………

The presence of God is an application of our spirit to God, or a realization of God as present, which is borne home to us either by the imagination or by the understanding.I have a friend who these forty years past has been practicing through his understanding a realization of the presence of God. To it he gives many other names- sometimes he calls it a simple act, or a clear and distinct knowledge of God. At other times, he refers to it as through a glass, a loving gaze, an inward sense of God. Yet again he terms it a waiting on God, a silent communicating with Him, a repose in Him, the life and peace of the soul.Still, my friend tells me that all these ways in which he has expressed his sense of the presence of God, come to the same thing. My friend further states that the presence now fills his soul quite naturally, and that the naturalness came to pass in the following way.By non-wearing efforts, by constantly recalling his mind to the presence of God, a habit has formed within him of such a nature that as soon as he is freed from his ordinary labor, and often even when he is engaged in his work, his soul lifts above all earthly matters, without deliberation or forethought on his part, and fixes itself firmly upon God as its centre and place of rest.At such times, there almost always comes to him a great sense of faith in God. It is then his soul’s joy is full-what he calls the actual presence of God, and includes all other kinds [of joy or the presence of God] and much more besides.In that state, he feels that only God and he are in the world - holding with Him unbroken communion, asking from Him the supply of all his needs, and finding in His presence fullness of joy. Let us note well, however, that he holds this fellowship with God in the depth of his being. It is there that the soul speaks to God, heart to heart, and throughout the soul who is so communicating there is infused a great and profound peace. All that occurs externally concerns such a soul no more than a fire of straw, which the more it flares the sooner it burns itself out. And really indeed do the cares of this world intrude to trouble the peace that is within.But to come back to our consideration of the presence of God. You must know that the tender and loving light of God’s countenance kindles imperceptibly within the soul that ardently embraces it, a fire of love to God that is so great and so divine that it is necessary for the person who is so affected to moderate the outward expressions of their feelings. Great would be our surprise, if we but knew what communion the soul holds at these times with God.He seems to so delight in this communion, that to the soul who would willingly abide forever with Him, he bestows favors past numbering. It is as if He was so concerned that the soul would turn again to things of earth, that He provides for it abundantly so that it finds in faith divine nourishment and immeasurable joy that is far beyond its utmost thought and desire- and all without a single effort on its part but simple consent. The presence of God is thus the life and nourishment of the soul
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THE BENEFITS OF THE PRESENCE OF GOD

The first benefit that the soul receives from the presence of God is that faith becomes more alive and active in all events of life, particularly when we feel our need, since it obtains for us the assistance of His grace when we are tempted and in every time of trial.Having learned by this practice to take faith as a guide, the soul, by simply remembering past occurrences, sees and feels God present, and calls upon Him freely and with assurance of an answer, thus receiving the supply of all its needs. By faith, it would seem, the soul draws very near to the state of the Blessed. The higher it advances, the more alive faith becomes, until at last the eye of faith is so piercing that the soul can almost say, “Faith is swallowed up in sight”… I see and I experience!The practice of the presence of God strengthens us in hope. Our hope grows in proportion as our knowledge grows, and in measure as our faith- by this holy practice- penetrates into the hidden mysteries of God. In like measure it finds in Him a beauty beyond comparison, surpassing infinitely that of the earth, and that of the most holy souls (in heaven) and angels.Our hope grows and becomes ever stronger, sustained and encouraged by the fullness of the bliss (it sees in faith) that it has as its goal, and which it already partially tastes. Hope breathes into the will a distrust of things seen, and sets it aflame with the consuming fire of God’s love. For God’s love is truly a consuming fire, burning to ashes all that is contrary to His will. The soul that is thus kindled cannot live except in the presence of God.This presence also works within the heart a consecrated zeal, a holy ardor, a violent passion to see this God become known and loved and served and worshipped by all His creatures. By the practice of the presence of God, by a steadfast gaze upon Him, the soul comes to a knowledge of God that is full and deep- as to an unclouded vision.Ever after its life is passed in unceasing acts of love and worship, of contrition and of simple trust, of praise and prayer, and service. At times, life indeed seems to be one long unbroken practice of His divine presence.I know that there are not many who reach this state. It is a grace that God bestows only on very few chosen souls, for this unclouded vision is a gift from His bountiful hand. Yet for the consolation of those who would willingly embrace this holy practice, let me say that God seldom denies this gift to those that earnestly desire it.If he does withhold this crowning mercy, be well assured that by the practice of the presence of God and the aid of His all-sufficient grace, your soul can arrive at a state that approaches very nearly the unclouded vision

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Short Biography of Brother Lawrence:

Brother Lawrence of the Resurrection (a.k.a. Nicholas Herman) lived in the 17th century and was a monk within the Carmelite Order of the Roman Catholic Church. This was the Order of such notable Christian mystics as St. Teresa of Avila and St. John of the Cross who authored other seminal mystical texts. "The Practice of the Presence of God" is a small book of compiled documents of various literary genres. The one who compiled them was the Abbe of Beaufort who is the author of the "Eulogy" portion of the book. He was a close friend to Brother Lawrence and, at the request of others, published his eulogy along with four conversations he had with Brother Lawrence and sixteen letters from Brother Lawrence to various individuals (Reverend Mother N {for "name"}, Reverend Father N, and Madame N).The title of the book speaks volumes as to what the book is about. Brother Lawrence was a very practical man whose struggles were common ones that we can all relate to. His sincere honesty (and that of the Abbe) is apparent throughout and his spirituality is simple to understand. Application, however, may not be so simple at first, but with disciplined PRACTICE one can turn one's life into a perpetual prayer to God. Remember, prayer is more than just words on the lips (although that is important too!); it is a humble attitude of a heart that has abandoned itself to the God of grace! Whatever the task is at hand (including such a mundane task as washing dishes like Brother Lawrence), one can offer it up to God in an act of love and worship. Everything one does becomes sanctified as one lives unto God and follows the Holy Spirit's leading.

THE RISK OF SPIRITUAL COMPLASCENCY!

2009-01-26T03:57:00.000-08:00

THE RISK OF SPIRITUAL COMPLASCENCY!

By Felix Abrahams Obi
Monday, January 26, 2009
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With disappointment written all over my face, I asked myself, ‘Oh God, why have I allowed myself to slip and miss the mark again, and again? Why has my prayer life become non-existent? Why doesn’t the Bible have an attraction to me again? Questions that nagged and begged for answers kept inundating my psyche. Yea…I consider myself a Christian believer and follower of Jesus Christ, whom I fondly call his Jewish name; Yeshua Hamashea!

Much as I call myself a believer, a billion and more others across the globe also call themselves Christians and their bumper stickers reveal same. Some have their name ‘christened’ having been born into a Christian ‘home’ and were raised in a Christian-dominated environment. So we’re all Christians and proudly so having been forgiven of our sins and our trespasses wiped away by the Blood of the Lamb…so to speak. I have taken my Christianity for granted and gradually my life is slipping and is gradually descending lower and lower into a life of compromise, which doesn’t seem to be so ‘cos other Christians aint living differently either.

We strut around as believers but in our daily lives, our Christianity is more or less a generic terminology that does little to influence or define our words, actions and the way we behave and act. We know all the terms…and ‘christianees’ that have become the common place among Christians …bless you, praise God, halleluiah, and the more hi-tech ones! We cruise to church on Sundays and weekdays for service and other activities and our Bible occupies a prominent place on our beds, or permanently left at a spot in our sleek cars that ostensibly reflect how ‘blessed’ and ‘prosperous’ we are…one of the dividends of salvation we are quick to add.

The modern-age Christian is contemporary in his social skills and keeps up to date with modern fashions and fad, and the 21st century culture. He lacks nothing and has grown appreciably in gathering the visible signs of prosperity; big cars, houses, fat bank accounts and often wants to show off his wealth before other believers especially on Sundays. But take a slice of this 21st century believer’s heart and use a spiritual microscope to view his heart and you won’t see cells that show signs of devotion to the one that saved him. You’d rather see spiritual cells that have died and shriveled due to prayerlessness and complacency. You’d spot cells that have become atrophied due to excessive hedonism and selfishness which are signs and symptoms of the syndrome called narcissism.

Take a deeper look into his heart and you’d see a lot more abhor able deposits that have stifled his spirituality: compromised and raunchy movies and computer games that took the place of his prayer and personal devotion times. English premiership players that have become role models over and above biblical heroes and saints. Check his i-phones or other digital players, and you’d see little or no spiritually-uplifting music or messages that would help nurture his heart’s sensitivity to the Spirit of God within. More spiritual forensic investigations are sure to reveal more results that would make the heart of God sour. Should you Carbon-date his heart, you’d find that his/her heart doesn’t know anything called MEDITATION, SILENCE, GODLY CONTEMPLATION!

Little wonder the modern age Christian slips and falls at every small temptation. We falter at little provocation of the flesh, and we are too ashamed to admit our weaknesses since humility has become an extinct virtue to be modeled among Christians. Talk about the prophetic and deep things, and you are bound to sound archaic and ancient, hence we now don’t even have ‘ancient landmarks’ to refer to as signposts for our spiritual development. And our morality has become recalibrated and falls short of biblical norms. Even when our consciences prick us with some guilt feelings when we miss the mark, we ignore its protest and carry on with business as usual. And we bother less about our prayerlessness that has birthed our powerlessness over diseases, besetting sin and forces (spiritual, political, economic and social) that are ruling our modern societies!

I am sick of being a modern age Christian and I long for a change. I hate it that I have grown cold in my passion and fervency for the things of God. I hate the numerous church activities that keep me busy, yet not adding value to my spirit man which grows mainly when I cultivate it at the place of private devotion, intercession, meditation of God’s Word, and active life that witnesses and showcases the power of the resurrected Christ. I want a heart that is not calloused…one that weeps and laments before God when I miss the mark, without putting up defenses or covering my sinful tracks from others, who are doing same. So we are not accountable because those to whom we’re to be accountable are also falling daily out of the state of divine grace.

My prayer is; “Lord revive me, and renew your Spirit within me….” I now seem to understand better that there is a ‘strait and narrow way’ for anyone who truly wants to be called a Christian. Forget about the mass appeal that Christianity offers, there is still the call to the place of being the ‘elect’…those that are often called the ‘remnant’ and it’s not everyone that is qualified to be the ‘chosen’ among the ‘called’. I wail within me for myself, and wonder if many other Christians feel this way, or are they all enjoying the vibrancy of God’s spirit in their lives. Are there many who have their eyes fixed on the things ‘above’ where our true treasures are stored in golden and unchanging vessels. Are there still Christians who radiate the splendor of God’s majesty through their exemplary lives? Are there still people who hunger and taste for righteousness? Are there still believers who’d lay down their lives? Are there still Christians who can bravely say NO to sin, and damn its consequences? Are there still believers who are spiritually sensitive to hear what GOD is saying…NOW?

Oh God, merciful Lord of the earth…stir my complacent heart and stoke it with the fire of your spirit. Nudge my heart to retrace its step back to you and begin a fresh start with you…LORD and MASTER of all!

Where have all the gentlemen gone?

2008-12-04T04:03:00.000-08:00

Where Have all the Gentleman Gone?
by Rabbi Shmuley Boteach - Monday, 22 September, 2008
(Comment on this article)

By Rabbi Shmuley Boteach
In Ireland last week, in front of hundreds of students at University College Dublin, I participated in a debate on whether pornography is destructive or harmless. Numerous speakers on the pro-pornography side argued that pornography was a central part of women’s liberation, a point which met with thunderous cheers from the women in the audience. When it was my turn to speak, I asked the young women present to raise their hands if they needed a man. Not one hand went up. I then told them that commensurate with the degree to which men are becoming immature, porn-obsessed schoolboys, women are giving up on the hope of ever finding a noble, well-mannered gentleman. As women confront the vulgar reality of how men treat them, they discover that becoming masturbatory material to men was not particularly liberating.
This despair of Dublin’s women was mirrored the next evening in a conversation with a twenty-nine year old woman who told me that she had given up on finding a good man seeing as the men in Dublin were conditioned ‘to treat women as orifices.’ ‘A huge number of women play along,’ she told me, ‘by coming out on Friday and Saturday nights in their skimpy mini-skirts in the freezing cold, getting completely drunk and doing anything the guys want in the mistaken belief that somehow this will bring them love. After a few years they give up on men and become like me.’
Nowhere in the Western world are we raising a generation of men who pride themselves on their restraint and respect toward women. We are likewise failing to cultivate women who refuse to be complicit in their own degradation and who insist that their sexuality be shared with a man only in the context of a serious and tangible romantic commitment. It’s a man’s world. Women just live in it.
This is even true in marriage as more and more relationship experts blame a cheating husband on his wife. If a man is unfaithful, they argue, it is often due to the fact that he feels lonely and unappreciated by his wife. By recognizing that their husbands have emotional and sexual needs which wives may be ignoring, a wife can win her husband back and ensure that he does not stray.
A few months ago I mentioned that this was the position taken by Dr. Laura Schlesinger after the Elliot Spitzer affair and it has since been echoed by other relationship writers.
But this attempt to blame the victim ignores the fact that the principle reason men womanize is to shore up their broken egos. There are so many damaged husbands who think that a nurturing stranger who both desires him and wishes to be an ear to his pain will be a salve to his painfully low self-esteem. In many cases, these are husbands who have wives who could not be more devoted, who give them sex whenever they want, who pine for them to come home at night, all to no avail. No matter how much she huffs and puffs, she cannot inflate his perforated ego.
Would we really suggest that, as Elizabeth Edwards ran around the country with incurable cancer catering to her husband’s yearning to be president, that her husband John cheated on her because she wasn’t caring enough?
After Silla Ward Spitzer garnered national ridicule by quite literally standing by her husband in his greatest moment of shame, would we inflict the final insult on her by telling her that her husband hung out with hookers because of her neglect?
In this age of husbands who are sports and TV addicts, I dare say that there are probably more wives who are ignored by their husbands than the reverse. But women seem much more capable of controlling themselves and deciding that a husband’s neglect is no excuse to corrupt one’s character and become immoral. Indeed, the only way to truly affair-proof one’s marriage is to decide that the pleasure of righteous action and moral heroism by far outstrips anything that can be experienced in illicit sex. This is something magical in a man’s ability to turn down an opportunity to stray and walk away from the encounter a devoted husband and moral giant. One of the prime reasons we all suffer from low self-esteem these days is that we are not the people we want to be. Becoming a liar and a cheat is probably not, in the long run, going to make us feel a whole lot better about ourselves. But deciding to behave righteously even when we are in pain will.
To be sure, wives should of course work to reach their husband’s buried emotions. Contrary to what many women believe, men are intimacy seekers. In these challenging financial times, wives should ask their husbands not, ‘How did your day go?,’ but, ‘How do you feel about all the convulsions in your company?’ They should nurture their men’s hearts and do their best to address their pain. But in the final analysis, if a husband cheats, it’s his fault. Period. He has his own selfishness and ingratitude to blame.
As I survey the current cultural landscape I often wonder, where have all the gentlemen gone? Our movies are filled with male bathroom humor. Our sporting heroes like Alex Rodriquez can’t seem to respect their commitments. Our college campuses are filled with frat boy party animals for whom womanizing is an integral part of ‘higher’ education. Do men today only aspire to an internet startup but not to refined character? Do they yearn for the Forbes Four Hundred list but not to set an example for their own sons of how a great man honors his wife and prioritizes his family?
There was a likeable young man I met in Dublin who was very smart but also very cynical. As I spoke with him he shared with me his desire to be recognized as a great director. He also said, matter-of-factly, that when he meets a woman he is unapologetic about trying to have sex with her. When I asked him if he wanted children, he said, “I love my future children enough not to have them. I would inevitably mess them up.” Of course, by the same logic he might as well never try and make a movie. But then, great directors get Academy Awards while gentleman receive no public accolades other than the knowledge that they alone among men tamed and harnessed the beast within.

I was here: a joyful contemplation of death

2008-12-01T08:23:00.000-08:00

I WAS HERE: A Joyful Contemplation of Death
By Felix Abrahams Obi
(12:12 AM, 30th November 2008)
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When the bridge between my eyes lose their nares
When the trapped air float out of my sinuses
When darkness announces the end of my daylight
Only to herald the endless night of my days
When time loses its grip on my life’s rhythm
And I take that long journey swallowed up by mystery
When eternity consumes my ephemeral dreams
And I exit this cocoon of limited realities

I want my name to be on the lips of many
That I was here
That I lived a noble life
That I loved; and not hated
That I tried: and even failed
That I stirred a wave of mirth in a sorrowful heart
That I touched a soul; laden with pain

Let others know that I was here for good
That I sired hope in a despaired heart
That I siphoned others’ tears into my heart
That I cried and wailed for others in their misery
That I waved a flag in their triumphs and joys
That I dreamt and lived; not for my dreams alone
That I carried a burden; not mine to bear

When my lips lock in an inseparable grip
When the mobility of teeth grind to a halt
When my eyelids refuse to blink or stare
When words cease and my tongue calcify like fossils
When thoughts are banished eternally from my brain

I want my name to be on another’s lips
That I loved God from the depths of my being
That I longed for him with a cry of desperation
That I loved you, him, her, they, them, and theirs
That I was not consumed by me, and its monomania
That I had been here; and not just a passerby
That I lived; and still live inside the head and heart of others!

©Felix Abrahams Obi
………………………………………………

Agreeing to not Disagree for the Common Good

2008-11-28T02:54:00.000-08:00

AGREEING TO NOT DISAGREE FOR THE COMMON GOOD
©Felix Abrahams Obi
28th November, 2008
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Loneliness is a common but unwelcome epidemic in our present age unlike any other. Everyone is too busy pursuing their own personal matters and little wonder so many highfliers abound in our generation. And with the increasing sophistication of ICT, the world is radically exiting from the fringes of reality to the ‘virtual world’ with so many of us becoming more at home with the illusions of a virtual world. Granted that the benefits of ICT are enormous, however no true alternative can be found that will fill the void that only face-to-face human interactions can fill. We can chat all-day on yahoo messenger, msn, AOL, meebo, Google chat, hi5 and the ubiquitous and addictive facebook; but without a doubt, a heart-to-heart chat does a deeper and lasting miracle in the human soul. Through the power of the internet, online real time communication has become common place and no longer a phenomenal thing to the modern city dweller. And I have tremendously benefited from the miracle of ICT through which my voice has been ferried across oceans and rivers, mountains and rocky hills to the ears and hearts of cherished family members and friends in far-flung regions of the world. There still and moving pictures stare at me from my PC’s monitor, and through video calls and webcams, I ‘see’ and hear them speak to me ‘live’.
But I would still prefer to see them face-2-face. I would like to embrace, hug and snuggle around them if need be. I would like to lean on the strength of their strong shoulders when my body frame has grown frail and weak. I would like to feel their tender touch and that look of acceptance when deferred hopes and dreams have shattered the clay pot where my dreams and ego are being preserved. I would like to look into their eyes and be consumed by the flames of love that emanate from them. I would like to hear them call my name, especially those endearing names that they used to woo me to come and hug them as a toddler. I would love my now-turned ‘virtual friends’ to tease and assail me with embarrassing jokes and teases. I would like to hear them call me my teenage nickname, “Jerry Renton” so I can holler back at them and say ‘ Bobos wozoputukwanu? …wetin dey shelee 4 ya side now?” I would love to exchange banters with them and snap each other’s palms when our favorite team scores ‘it is a goooooaaaalllll!”
These are some of the human side of life that the internet and advanced ICT have connived to deprive us of. Though the ICT revolution has enhanced our quality of life and speed of communication, but it has been at a major human interest cost. Now some doctors and therapists have become experts in the treatment and management of internet addiction. The internet provides us a theater where all our suppressed and repressed fantasies, illusions and idiosyncrasies can assert their freedom of expressions. Pseudonyms can help to hide our true identity on our blog, but our personality still stays with us when all the façade has been yanked off from our virtual faces. Why do we feel so uninhibited in our expressions on the net yet hold back and embrace a kind of hypocritical lifestyle when we step into the human-to-human interface. Are we too afraid to release our true selves from the bondage of self-slavery when we relate with our fellow beings? Why are we so afraid to disagree with others, and too wary to not swallow their ideas of who we should be and not who we really were created to be by God? Are we so hungry for their affirmations that we dread their disapproving glance and stare, especially when we make attempts to become our freed-selves? We should know that we can disagree with other’s attempt to compartmentalize and categorize us, but we can agree with them when the focus is on the common good!

We might live in a postmodern age characterized by individualism and assertive self-independence, but are we better off without each other? When we network with others at business dinners and corporate lunch, we ostensibly seem to only seek for potential clients that will feed into our dreams of self-actualization; of our individual whims and caprices. We oftentimes succeed at the expense of others for when one person wins recklessly, he/she rises up the notch of accomplishment possibly because another had failed where he/she succeeded. We then build a castle over our accomplishments and successes that others might burn incense in obeisance to the erected self-god that loves to be worshipped by all and sundry. Though our individuality and self-affirmation has its merits, we need to be careful to not let its demerits swallow the joy of community. And the fiery press and push of the forces of globalization have made many realize the futility of erecting individual empires that attempt to dwarf community. Mergers and acquisitions, economic bail outs and all have made us see how much we need each other to succeed in real life.
The global events of late have somewhat made us become more disentangled from the grips of selfish pursuits and to become more intertwined as the community humanity. Many may not accent to this but they would be shocked to realize how the races of the earth are growing into the true species called ‘humanity’; a community of human beings created to inhabit ,cultivate and protect the earth. When bombs explode in New York, morbid fear grips many across the world. When earthquake buries thousands in China, the powerlessness and vulnerability of fiery regimes become glaring to all. When floods swallow and engulf highlands and cause ‘mountain slides’ in South America, our helplessness stares rudely at our ego and self-pride. When terrorists bombard trains in London, or attack hundreds with assault rifles at Mumbai India, we recognize the homogeneity of human blood and its elements. That is one reason why the world could downplay the import of race to get caught up in the celebratory dancing that was elicited by Obamania, amidst the economic crises at Wall Street and across the world. We are one- humanity when we inadvertently rejoice with those that rejoice, or mourn with those that mourn. In one of Ben Okafor’s (www.benokafor.com) songs, he wailed in a deep lament;
“I am not because I am; I am just because we are
For those who make you suffer, do me wrong…”
When we can learn to exit from the cocoon of self, and become consumed by the desire for humanity’s common good, we would become more aligned in such a manner that the resources and forces of good become not only accessible, but also amenable to us for the achievement of things that guarantee our corporate benefit. But the drive towards this point of common good starts with a journey into ourselves where we understand through introspection that life is truly not about us as specific individuals. For when we die and drop out of the rat race of life, the world continues after the tears of loved ones have all dried up, leaving only vestiges of who we were or what we meant to them in their memories. This inward journey prepares us for the outward journey from the clutches of self, till we become ‘lost’ in the sea of humanity. We can then join forces with selfless-others to bring true and enduring benefits to our world.
The young Jewish Rabbi, Yeshua Hamashea lived for others and taught his followers this principle of laying down one’s life for the good of others. He made them see the benefits of living for the good of others. He taught them the principle of ‘oneness’, expressed as unity in spite of the diversities of our personalities and backgrounds. This unity becomes the premise and precondition upon which answers to their prayers would be answered by God. But before oneness of humanity can be realized, people need to first of all learn to bond at the heart level with each other in pairs of two as emphasized by the rabbi in his speeches: “…if two of you agree on earth concerning anything that they ask, it will be done for them by My father in heaven. For when two or three are gathered together in My name, I am there in the midst of them.”
The power that two united-at-heart individuals can muster for common good is inestimable. They can generate divine power that can bring healing and restoration to the individual and the community at large. But this is predicated upon the depth and intensity of agreement between them. I have experienced the miracle of agreement between two people when they pray together. About a decade ago, a close medical doctor friend bared his heart to me on a particularly stubborn fungal infection that had ravaged his body for a long time, which had defied all known prescription drugs. He couldn’t bare his trunk even during the hot season before fellow guys due the embarrassment it caused him. As prayer partners, we held hands together and ‘agreed’ that the skin disease should disappear. It was a quiet but affirmative prayer we had made without any gymnastics, and trusting that God will hear us and respond as fast as possible. A couple of weeks later, I visited him again and was bewildered when he stripped his shirt to show me that the skin lesions and rashes from the chronic fungal infection had disappeared. As a medical-doctor-turned pastor he could see that this healing was divinely orchestrated, having exhausted all remedies and drug therapies recommended by his dermatology consultants while in medical school. And the process that started this miracle was the mere holding of hands, that symbolized the bonding of two willing hearts in agreement with each other, and trusting that God will answer us…and indeed he answered ‘in a jiffy’!
We really can’t imagine what potential resources are available to us for the good of all, when we begin to make efforts to agree in principle with one another. Disagreements only lead to chaos when one loses sight of the whole and bigger picture, the community of humanity. For when we love our neighbours as ourselves like Jesus Christ had taught and practiced, we would hardly chuckle at their misfortunes and failures, but will be moved with empathy to give a helping hand. And when we love and care for others genuinely, and do unto them as we’d love them do to us, then have we begun the journey of oneness of brethren which the writer of Psalm 133 described as being like the fresh dew over Mount Hermon, and as fragrant as the precious and sacred oil that was used to anoint the first Jewish High Priest, Aaron.
The writer is a physiotherapist; poet and public health expert based in Abuja Nigeria and can be reached at halal3k@yahoo.com.

Abuja's Storyteller Comes of Age

2008-11-20T00:19:00.001-08:00

MR. REWARD ENAKERAKPOR: The STORYTELLER THAT BELONGS TO LIFE...
©Felix Abrahams Obi
In the yore years of our forefathers’ existence, the unblinking stare and the smiles of the moon had an enchanting appeal on our people. The full moon drew them to the village squares where they encircled that one whose voice regaled them with stories. He was the Storyteller; the custodian of the ancient wisdom encapsulated in folklores, proverbs, poetic chants and all. Each story captivated the hearers who imbibed enduring life lessons from the moral of the stories told by the Storyteller. Children’s growing consciences received instructions, and the accounts of the heroic exploits of the village’s warriors steeled the hearts of the feeble-minded. Kings and nobles listened to the tales of the Storyteller, and the peasants and the common people revered him for his oratory. He could not hide under the cover of obscurity because his artistry made him sit before no mean men! Though the world truly has changed with urbanization and technology, there is one who has chosen to preserve the tradition of the sages.
The Storyteller, a performance poet based in Abuja is on a mission to unzip the sealed lips of storytellers across Nigeria and he has made great and enviable strides. He thinks deep and muses like philosophers of old whose ideas shaped the thinking and mindsets of generations born long after they had passed on to the land of oblivion Over the years, he has regaled audiences with his enchanting voice that tells stories; funny, whimsical, romantic, reflective, philosophical, to the deeply spiritual or worship. He is a man of words loaded with anecdotes.
Born Emuesiriverere Akpe Enakerakpor, in the garden city of Port Harcourt , this young man’s artistic genius was sculpted and shaped during the lonely moments he spent with the Muse at the parents’ apartment at the University of Port Harcourt . Influenced by the likes of Sade Adu, Tracy Chapman, Phil Collins, Harry Belafonte among others. His voice transmits his philosophies about life through narrative poetry and songs, a ‘man of words’, a writer, poet, singer, actor and compeer of great repute. All these creative expressions of this great artist have certified him as the Storyteller of our modern age!
The Storyteller, with the same enchanting and baritone voice became a poet laureate when he won the poetry grand slam of the Abuja Literary Society at the Transcorp Hilton Hotel before an ecstatic crowd. Though, his soul thrives in utter quietness so he can hear and replicate the voice of the storyteller within, one of the times he broke his vow of silence was when he wrote and self-published the first volume of his free verse poem titled, “Letters from The Monastery” in 2005. Since then, his voice has told countless stories to audiences within and outside Abuja . He has performed at various corporate events hosted by international bodies, and has been host at various shows on TV and Radio stations.
Not content with the reach of his poems and stories, he engaged a reputable producer to produce a double album; “Déjà vu” and “E Go Be!” – a collection of some of his award winning songs and poems and some fresh ones. And on the evening of Sunday, the 2nd of November 2008, an anxious crowd gathered at the ambient showroom of Haier Thermocool at Ceddi Plaza ( Abuja ’s foremost entertainment centre) to herald the pubic launch of Storyteller’s double album. “Déjà vu” is a collection of 20 avant garde poems that resonate with life and lull the heart of the listener to a state of tranquil rest. While “E Go Be!” contains 13 poetic songs with an upbeat and contemporary feel like the hit singles, ‘e go be!” , foolishman and ‘gba fun mi” that make the heart and feet shuffle and waltz.
It was a memorable evening of music and dance, of laughter and mirth, of sobriety and gravity, of colourful lights that blended with the loveliness of the guests. The comedian, MC Amana opened the event with a bout of jokes before the compeers’, Ahide and Cool Fm presenter, Doshima took over and anchored the entire event. Following the Nigerian national anthem, Earnest Ben, a poet set the tempo with his poetically-crafted rhymes. Other Abuja-based poets like Temple , The Prince and Ekene Atusuba and Captian George rendered poems that caused a stir and evoked thunderous applause from the appreciative crowd. Comedian, the Governor and Funny Bone made the ribs heave and crackle with their funny jokes, and a dance duo did a salsa rendition of “Gbafunmi”.
Some really talented singers were on hand to add glamour to the evening. The young hip hop act called Victoriouz gave a good account of his talents and other highly gifted singers like Ben ameen ,Ibiyemi, and Sale Adum, and the banker-singer, Lawrence Obor enthused the guests with songs that touched the heart. Guitarists Bem Sar, Hon and Harrison teased our ears with the refined notes and chords that reverberated from their deftly-strummed acoustic guitars and the hugely talented artiste Sheun performed on the track “Ego go be”. It was not only music that made the evening special as Eugenia Abu, one of Nigeria’s best female newscasters added the ‘big sister’ props to the album launch by reading portions from her award-winning book, ‘In The Blink of An Eye” to the delight of the guests.
The Storyteller was the cynosure of eyes as he upped his performance and took his creative energy to a hilly height beyond the reach of mediocrity during his performances. Backed up by the female singer, Icha, he performed the afro beat-styled song, ‘Foolish Man’ and later did ‘For Love, For Lilian”. In his second appearance he performed rock-based song ‘In Your Head, In Your Bed” with the sonorous crooner, Sallie. The special guest of the night, foremost female Jazz singer, Yinka Davies did a duet with the Storyteller, “I No Go Love Again”. She’d request a special duet with Sallie that elicited a rousing applause from the crowd.The events of the evening reached a crescendo when the ‘corporate comedian’ Governor climbed the stage to anchor the formal presentation of the double album. A lucky guest was ecstatic when she won a home theatre courtesy of Haier Thermocool office in Abuja through a lucky dip.
The Storyteller had ostensibly reserved his best performance for the last minutes of the evening. Backed up by the guitarist, Harrison he performed “Déjà vu” and wrapped up the evening with the danceable and hope-inspiring song, “E Go Be” with Sheun which saw the crowd shuffling and thumping their feet, while some nodded their heads while swaying to the enchanting beats of the song. The Storyteller in his vote of thanks expressed his deep gratitude to all and sundry who had contributed to the upward trajectory of his poetic music career over the years. Standing beside as he eulogized the guest was his amiable and genial fiancée Adaeze with whom he would walk down the aisle in a matter of weeks to tie the nuptial knots.
As the crowd eased towards the exit looking satisfied, I reflected on the life of the Storyteller whose trajectory has traced the course of stars, not those that fleet about momentarily. He has matured and grown in wisdom and mental stature. The world is now at his beck and call, and he would be sure to conquer not a few hearts and win them over with his endearing and riveting stories. He has given poetry legs to run with, and have cleared a pathway through which poems would walk into the private space of both the noble and commoner alike. A wise man once said that the best way to be remembered after one had died and gone is for the one to write a great book that others would read or do things that great writers would write for others to read. The Storyteller’s life tells a story of perseverance, dedication and focus that would be read and pondered over by this generation and those not yet born!
The author, Felix Abrahams Obi is a Poet and Physiotherapist based in Abuja and can be reached via halal3k@yahoo. com or www.nuggetz4life. blogspot. com .

Pictures from the Launch…

NOTE: to book the STORYTELLER for performances, gigs and shows, kindly contact his Manager, Mr. Frank Nkwopara via 08038619724 or frankun2000@ yahoo.co. uk or storyteller @yahoo.com

Doing God's Will for Your Life

2008-11-18T03:18:00.000-08:00

DOING GOD’s WILL FOR YOUR LIFE
By Felix Abrahams Obi
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
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It was 23rd December 2004 and the Christmas air was as palpable as a bubble, and the Lagos Community Gospel Choir which I belonged to gathered together at Ikoyi Hotel for a short retreat prior to the evening Christmas carol/concert that was billed to hold at MUSON Centre. Since we couldn’t hold the usual all-day/night retreat at a resort centre in Akodo Beach Area of Lagos, Ikoyi Hotel became the last resort. So we gathered together; to chitchat, chill out and bond as a group, and discussed future directions and plans of the choir. We had lunch together, and our pastor and spiritual director of the choir, Dr Tony Rapu shared his future dreams and visions for the choir. Just before we left for MUSON Centre, he asked us to form a circle with our hold hands clasped with each other to form an unbroken bond while we worshipped and shared a word of prayer.
And just before we shared the grace, the atmosphere changed, and he began to give prophesies and word of knowledge concerning different individuals in the choir. I felt a tinge of jealousy as some of the prophetic words the pastor had spoken about some of our members were very comforting and I wished they were for me to claim. All of a sudden, he turned towards me and walked up to me. I wondered what sweet and comforting words God had for me. Maybe an affirmatory word that will make me appear as God’s anointed and special one like he spoke to the hearing of the Jews after the baptism of Jesus Christ at Jordan River.
But my pastor’s countenance changed as he faced. His eyes turned fiery and his fingers pointed at me as though they were about to pull at a gun’s trigger. It sure was a trigger of sorts as the words of prophecy that came forth shot at me like a rain of bullets from a magazine. “…Felix, God says ‘you are still on your plans…God says ‘Don’t you know I’m the One that is frustrating your plans because I love you and have a Master Plan for your life?’….” The words from my pastor’s mouth came were like a torrent of rain that swept me off my feet. I was asked to step out from the circle to go and pray and sort myself before God. Everyone’s eyes were riveted at me, and many in the choir would’ve wondered what crazy stuff I’d done to merit such a strong and public rebuke from God. And I felt so exposed and naked before their eyes.
I was broken and I cried like a baby. “God what do You just want from me?” I asked with tears. “God, why don’t You leave me alone so I can pursue my own dreams and goals and aspirations?” But deep in my heart, I knew those prophetic words were true, and it made me know that God truly is Omniscient. Interestingly though, I had adopted the name ‘Masters Pen’ after giving my life to Christ 1994 and pledged to use my writings to project God and bring Glory to Him. And earlier in the year 2004 while praying about the direction of my career and relocation from Lagos, I felt I ‘heard’ God speak to me quietly about ‘being called teach His word to the nations’ and ‘becoming a custodian of His riches and grace, and ‘a vessel for the expression of His love to others’ etc. They were so profound that I knelt down and told God I was willing to give up my own plans (which I laid out in my book of visions and dreams) to pursue his plans for my life.
But I added a clause which sounded more like a caveat: “Lord I’ll only accept that you have called me if you can confirm it through my pastor…” It was a kind of smart move and a leeway to dodge but I was busted a few months later (in October 2004) when God prophetically spoke to me through my pastor to fulfill the precondition that I had set for myself. I made a commitment to pursuing God’s agenda for my life, only to drift away to pursue my own career plans again. When the prophetic rebuke came on December 23rd 2004, I felt stopped on my track and learnt a life lesson that day; that God’s callings and appointments are never reversed or cancelled and it’s up to us to accept and pursue it wholeheartedly.
Thereafter, I began to take the first few steps along the road that takes one through the painful process of dying of one’s dreams and aspirations. As I reviewed the life of my pastor and mentor, Tony Rapu, I also saw that he had also come to the point where he laid down and buried his own personal plans. It was and has never been an easy choice to make. His dream was to become one of the best medical doctors ever to be produced from Nigeria and he pursued that with dogged determination. But those dreams began to trasmutate and change course after he gave his life to Christ. He would overtime drop his stethoscope when the calling of God upon his life as a pastor was confirmed by his Pastor Enoch Adeboye. The burden and responsibility of catering for the spiritual and other needs of a generation of Christians was now laid on his shoulders to bear. And in saying yes to that call of shepherding God’s flock, his own plans, dreams and aspirations died at the altar of obedience to God’s claim on his life. So when he gave those prophecies with pain in his heart, I knew he was speaking from a heart that has also given up the pursuit of his own plans and career dreams!
Years have passed since those prophecies came and I realized that one of the most fulfilling moments have been those times I exited the cocoon of self to become an instrument for the expression of God’s love to others. I have also experienced great joy and sense of fulfillment whenever some unknown person/s in another city or continent sends an email to hint how they got blessed or resolved a particular challenge in their life after reading some of my writings which someone had sent to them etc. At times I’ve received phone calls and emails from strangers who wanted to know if I am a ‘pastor’ so they can ‘join my church’! And one of the most frustrating moments I’ve ever had have been those extended periods when I retreated into my cocoon of self after feeling exhausted from ‘carrying the problems and ministering to the needs of others’.
Recently I have been doing some introspection about life and speaking the truth to myself. Painfully I’ve discovered that a Christian’s joy and fulfillment are tied to his/her fulfillment of God’s calling on his/her life; the steadfast pursuit and doing of God’s will for his/her life which is a true measure of our faith and commitment to God. Following a review of the lives of Christians that have touched and impacted the lives of others, one thing stands out; they always placed God’s will above their own plans! The steady pursuit of God’s will was the clear and singular objective that characterized their lives at every point. And that also was the single motive that Jesus had… “My food is to do the will of him who sent me and to finish his work”. They forsake their own personal needs to the point of peril in their bid to bring meaning, healing and give of themselves to meet the needs of others. More interestingly, their commitment to do God’s will seem to give them access to a divine reservoir of grace and supernatural strength, deeper depths of spiritual discernment and insights , and a great sense of purpose and motivation in life. But they paid a big price of laying down their own lives and dreams!
Derek Prince was an atheist who became a resident professor in ancient and modern philosophy King’s College at Cambridge University before he turned 30 years. He was educated as an astute scholar of Greek, Latin, Hebrew, and Aramaic and spoke a number of modern languages. But in the early years of World War II, while serving as a hospital attendant with the British Army in North Africa, Derek experienced a life-changing encounter with Jesus Christ concerning which he wrote: “Out of this encounter, I formed two conclusions which I have never since had reason to change: that Jesus Christ is alive; second, that the Bible is a true, relevant, up-to-date book. These two conclusions radically and permanently altered the course of my life.” Derek after the war resigned from his professorship as a philosopher and devoted his life to the study and teaching of God’s Word in clear and simple ways so that people everywhere can find relevance for their lives. And I and so many across the world have benefitted tremendously from his books even after his death!
As part of my looking inwards, I took time to read his book titled “God’s Will for Your Life” and it has deepened and reinforced my understanding and commitment to the pursuit of God’s will. Some of the lessons I learnt from the book and his life’s experiences are:
The first step is to will to do God’s will and that we cannot lead a right life if we do not will to lead a right life. Decision is a key word. We have to decide: “I am going to do God’s will.”
We do not find out first and then will to do God’s will; rather we first choose to do, and then we find out. So if you want to know out of your intellectual curiosity without the willingness to make a commitment, God will not reveal His will to you.
But if you will to do God’s will first, then understanding, insight and revelation will unfold to your committed mind and heart. You will experience a new sense of purpose as God reveals His will for your life.
The second step is to sacrifice our authority and ownership of our body’s desires and preferences. This changes our mindset and in most cases, we discover that God’s path is very different from what we think it might be originally.
As long as we are busy with our own plans, purposes, and objectives, we cannot be channels of divine life. Since this was true even of Jesus, how much more it is for me and you?
If we want the privilege of being God’s bread broken to feed a hungry world, then we must make a renunciation: “Not…my will but…the will of him who sent me.”
The world needs channels of life, but there is a price to pay. If you want to be a channel of life to others, death has to first work in you so that life can be at work in others since you are here not to do your own will.
If you renounce your own will and pursue with single-hearted devotion the will of God as revealed for your life, then you, too, in your own measure, can be food for a hungry world and life to a dying world. However, this is impossible while you are concerned with doing your own will.
Throughout the Gospels, the emphasis of Jesus was not merely on doing the will of God, but on finishing the work.
Doing the will of God will always bring glory to him and whatever task God calls you to do, if you do it thoroughly and finish it, you can bring glory to him.
The task God assigns to you may be simple, humble or ordinary. It may entail being the best wife, mother, a godly husband and father, an efficient secretary, or good businessman. Whatever the task, if you finish it and do a thorough job, you will bring him glory
Self-seeking, half-hearted service never glorifies God because the motive is wrapped up in self, and there are Christians even ministers, who are concerned for their glory rather than God’s glory. They may attract large followings and get people interested in their gifts and ministries, but the ultimate end will not be to the glory of God.
In order to glorify God, we must have a single vision for the task God has assigned us, and we need to have a fixed determination that we will finish the task no matter what it costs.
Verses to Ponder:
Jeremiah 29:11; Prov. 3:5-7; Prov. 16:1, 9; Prov. 19:21; Luke 1:13-20; Luke 2:29-35; Eph 1:11

A Hurting Girl and Failed Relationship with Her Late Father

2008-11-17T00:01:00.000-08:00

Hello friends,
A close friend would like you to learn a thing or two about God's love from her experience of failed relationship with her dad. I know her pretty well and can attest to the veracity of her account. She had personally asked me by mail and by phone, that I can share it with YOU...and feel free to share your comments too.

Regards,
Felix
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Hi Felix,

How are you? Been a while, how is work, writing and all.

I have attached a piece which I wrote in April 2006 to you for review and eventually, for you to share it with as many that might need it - I am not sure I had sent it to you then. I must confess reading through makes me feel very vulnerable but I will rather if it might bless someone else.

Yesterday I was thinking of how a friend who lost his wife and baby in 2006 ( a few days to their 2nd wedding aniversary and her birthday) could help other young christain men in similar situation. This thot was prompted because another young member of my department in church had just lost his wife in similar circumstances (apparent negligence or carelessness of medical team during childbirth). Their marriage was just barely over one year. Something reminded me that I had not used my prior experiences to assist others and wanted someone else to do same . I remembered I wrote the attached piece while recuperating from the accident I had in 2006. It was not something I had thot through. I just started writing and all that came out. As mentioned, I feel so vulnerable and ashamed at some of the contents but I will rather that God be glorified through it all ( I hope He will be) than hide my shame. I have modified it a bit.
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THE MISSED DANCE WITH MY FATHER: A true-life confession.

It was at about a few minutes before 8 am on January 20 2006, I was having a wonderful time in His presence, and my phone rang. I initially ignored it but the caller kept calling. It was my much older cousin who rarely called …I will call him back I told myself. However, he kept calling; and I decided to answer the call. I got the rudest shock of my life as I heard the last words I expected at this time- “Your father is dead!” Do not get me wrong, it was not that I believed he will live forever; I had actually imagined what I will do if he died but not at this time; not when I had planned going to see him the next day after almost 17 months of putting it away; not when I had finally made the decision that regardless of how I feel/felt, I will love my dad and show it to him. ”Father (in heaven) forgive me, I have failed him (my earthly father)”, I cried.

At this point, I think a short trip down memory lane might help you understand my pain. My dad had a stroke sometime in mid 2004 and I had gone to PH see him, from my base in Lagos but that was the last time I went. I was angry with him and also angry with God. I had felt cheated and wondered why God, having allowed me miss out of a few years with my dad and the opportunity of building a relationship with him when I needed him most, will now repay him with his ill health which he appeared to have induced by not taking his drugs. . I felt if he was not there for me when I needed him most, why I should now be burdened with having to do so now especially when I heard friends talk about what their fathers were still doing/did for them. Although it seemed we had a relationship, I knew better. He only existed as a figure somewhere in the remotest parts of my heart. From my childhood days to becoming a grown-up lady, I had held unto my misgivings and anger for what he did to my mum, and the hurt and pain had persisted through the years. Hence I gave him (and other men) no chance to ‘toy with my heart’, let alone bond with him like a daughter would.

I also found it difficult coming to terms with how my once tall and handsome dad now looked, so I preferred to keep that image in my head. I gave in to selfish emotions and thought of me only. And all through 2005, I kept saying I will go to visit him in PH but I felt I had stayed too far away to just go for a few days. I could not afford to go by air, not so much for the cost but I felt why spend about 20k on traveling; and I felt giving him that money will do a lot for him. Unfortunately I was not sending the money regularly like I had originally intended due to my misgivings towards him and God. To add to the already bad situation, he had lost hope in life and was not so cooperative with his treatment.

However that morning that when the news of his death came, reality hit me and regret took hold of me. I finally realized that I had allowed the devil to cheat me from ever having a relationship with my father by using the “bag of hurt” and its contents - bitterness, unforgiveness and anger as his tool to defraud me of the love of a father. It wasn’t God cheating me; it was me allowing the devil to deny me of the opportunity to build a relationship with my dad. I was never even sure if he was born-again, although I always wanted him to and at times prayed for him. Trust the devil to take advantage of the situation. He did a good job of accusing me whenever I went to God to pray and it took God speaking to me through two dreams over a period of about 3- 4 months before I could get over that.

I might not know or fully appreciate how much your dad might have hurt you, but to an extent I guess I can relate with the hurt you carry in your heart.

“Nooooooooo” you might scream. “You do not know the horrendous things he did to me, my siblings or my mum”.

You are right I do not know these things and might never know them, but I know how it feels to long for a dad’s presence and not get one. I know a bit of how it feels to sit among friends and hear stories of what their dad did for them and not have one to tell or share proudly. I know the tears, anger and bitterness. I also know the resulting hardness when you do not care anymore and decide to move on and be all you want to be without him (in some cases, so you can show him you don’t care). I know the feeling of been cheated in several “battles”.

I recall telling someone my dad had never been at any major achievement in my life and he had now also missed my wedding. However, all the anger, bitterness and loss is nothing compared to the anger and sense of having lost the final battle; i.e. allowing the devil to cheat me from ever getting back at him or making things better again. The pain of never been able to do several things I wished to do, ask or talk to him (my dad) about like any girl would wish.

The devil comes forth to steal, kill and destroy. This I can say because I had given him the opportunity to do that to a relationship with my father. After all, the card I bought to give him on father’s day in 2001 is still with me. Crying over spilt milk will definitely not help. Interesting I have not shed a tear since I heard the news of my father’s death. Not because I am trying not to but I just cannot. Recalling all the wonderful things I could have done, asked or said that cost nothing does not matter any more.

The devil had cheated us (you and I) of a beautiful relationship with our fathers (and/or mothers) by deceiving him( our dads) to do all the things he did or did not do. However will you allow him to keep having the victory by holding unto the bag of hurt and its contents?

“No, I am not bitter, it is just that you do not understand; you do not know my dad, it is always better to keep him at arm’s length” you might say.

But remember love can never keep another at arm’s length -imagine if Jesus had kept you at arm’s length. LOVE can never be kept secret and it never fails.

I might not know your dad and know how best to reach and love him. But I know the one who knows him better than he knows himself-God. Go to the FATHER who has always loved both of you and ask him to help you to let go of the bitterness, anger et al and the let go of it. I say let go ‘cause I took this step several times but I kept holding on to some of the hurt. In addition, ask Him to teach you to love your dad and you can begin by just praying for him. I am sure a call, a note or a card and where possible, a visit is one of the steps you can take. I am not saying it will be easy or welcomed. But remember, God’s grace is sufficient for you; His arms are there to hold you when you fall and his shoulders to lean on when your emotions fail you. Also remember LOVE can never fail- God will honor His word above his name.

For you, this might not seem relevant because you have no issue with your father; it might just be your mum.

“How could she?” you ask? “A father I can understand, but a mother-no! How can a mother abandon her own child? How could she have deserted us when we needed her most?”

These and many more questions rush through your mind, with no apparent “justifiable” answers for them. Interestingly, as they do, so does the bitterness, hurt, anger and in some cases the tears you might not want to give in to. Regardless of which parent it is, God is reaching out to you now, to heal your heart.

Finally do not allow the devil the final victory by making him steal, kill and destroy the opportunity and joy of a new relationship with your dad. Share the victory with Jesus and have the last laugh. Sharing this with you is my own way of achieving this despite all

I will be praying for you.

Takia

When my father and my mother forsake me, then the LORD will take care of me. Psalms 27:10

Can a woman forget her nursing child, and not have compassion on the son of her womb? Surely they may forget, yet I will not forget you. Isaiah 49:15

The Dynamics of Obama's Messianism!

2008-11-14T01:51:00.000-08:00

THE DYNAMICS OF OBAMA’s MESSIANISM
By Felix Abrahams Obi
©Friday, 14th November, 2008
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To many across the world, Obama has made history. He has blazed a trail no 'Blackman' has ever trodden, though his chromosomes were harvested from the ovaries of a Caucasian and the loins of a Negroid; two races that are somewhat diametrically different in several ways. He has made history no doubt and blacks in America now rejoice and many would now see White House as "Blackman's House' too. To many, Obama has become a messiah of sorts and they don’t seem to doubt their doubts nor try to question the basis for their misplaced hopes in a mortal.

But come to think of it, Obama didn't really make history so to speak. He in a sense validated history rather than create one. A recreation of history was what he duly achieved, and I envy him in no small way as it’s only a few mortals that can woo the whole world into frenzy like Obama. He succeeded because he actually is a true student of history who understood the spiritual dynamics of history making and its creation. The Greeks understood this and their philosophers expounded on it and not a few across the world know this. And many who understood the ranting of this philosophers and sages and went on to imbibe the espoused principles have been ably privileged to make history like Obama just did.

When a young Jewish rabbi stepped unto the dusty roads of Palestine at the dawn of 2 millennia ago, the Romans didn’t know their empire was about to lose its power over the world. He was a student of history and the sages of his day were amazed at his depth of knowledge and understanding of LIFE. As a toddler, he engaged them in a long debate and they felt flustered and discombobulated at his wits and oratory. As a ruddy Youngman, he walked on the streets on foot while kings and nobles rode on horse backs. His ordinariness made him look powerless like a poor and voiceless man but he would one day ride triumphantly on a donkey that trudged on the beautiful apparels strewn on the dusty lanes to Jerusalem.

They saw in him a messiah for when he opened his mouth; the well-crafted words that exuded were mingled with wisdom as they flowed effortlessly to the amazement of the peasants and nobles alike. He gave expressions to the longings of their hearts. He made them know that change or anything “…is possible to them that believed’ since there are really no impossibilities under the face of the sun. The custodians of the established ‘socio-religio-political’ systems of his day felt threatened and they had to kill him, not for what good he did, but for what he believed, taught and lived for. A tiny band of his followers would document and bind his teachings into an anthology and many lives have that have read and poured through those words of this rabbi have been transformed since that Book was canonized.

Many have used the teachings of this rabbi and the example he lived as basis for their efforts to bring dignity to man. And when Martin Luther King Jr. began his civil rights movement in the 1960s, he based his struggles on the grounds that God created everyone equal irrespective of the colour of their skin. The genetic compositions and morphological dimensions of the physical bodies of the different races of humanity are more or less alike. A Nose is a nose; an ear detects sound and the brain interprets the tone and meaning. The legs carry the weight of the body when we sit or stand and walk. Every race or ‘genre’ of humanity all laughs cries and loves alike. All races hate, kill and destroy equally. And more importantly, all races create and make WORDS; they all articulate speech in words that are ferried into the hearts of the hearers to cause a change, oftentimes a revolution! That was the medium the hallowed and revered Jewish rabbi, Yeshua Hamashea (a.k.a. Jesus Christ) used to elicit one of the most enduring revolution ever known to man; revolution during which swords were either slipped back into their sheaths or plowed into a sickle! He did what he did in the hearts of men without shooting a cannon or an arrow.

Leo Tolstoy, the respected Russian nobleman and esteemed writer was amazed when he discovered this method of steering a revolution without the shedding of blood after studying the teachings of this Jewish rabbi. He articulated his findings in a book, “The Kingdom of God is Within You” and espoused the principle of non-violence or better called non-resistance as a means to achieving a revolution. The non-Jewish man, Mahatma Gandhi (a Hindu man) would become influenced by this way of thinking…and through much persuasion and oratory, he convinced his Indian brothers and sisters to confront the British Imperialist forces with hands bereft of swords and no triggers to clutch. Without shooting or firing a bullet in the real sense, change came to India and so did freedom begin its reign in the hearts of Indians who are one of the most patriotic and nationalistic beings on earth!

Martin Luther King (MLK) Jr. also read and swallowed up the words of the Jewish rabbi and believed vehemently in their veracity and potency and impact on the hearts of those that hear them. The rabbi had said that those who love (self-preservation) their life would lose it, while those that hate (self-sacrifice) theirs would eventually gain it. MLK whose neck-collar as a reverend gentleman was enough to guarantee him some degree of respect and dignity, but he chose to remove that toga so he can embrace the pains of the disenfranchised people of colour. The power of those WORDS (of the Jewish rabbi) that he had read began to seethe and transform into a dream within him. Thus did he begin to articulate the dream of freedom for all races irrespective of colour or creed. He began to dream of the universality of freedom that ensures the preservation of humanity from the dictates of selfishness and villainy.

Hear some of his words:
A genuine revolution of values means in the final analysis that our loyalties must become ecumenical rather than sectional. Every nation must now develop an overriding loyalty to mankind as a whole in order to preserve the best in their individual societies.

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First we are challenged to rise above the narrow confines of our individualistic concerns to the broader concerns of all humanity. The new world is a world of geographical togetherness. This means that no individual or nation can live alone. We must all learn to live together, or we will be forced to die together.

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So it was not just a mere coincidence that on the 40th anniversary of Martin Luther’s historic speech, “I have a Dream” that Barack Obama accepted the nomination of the Democratic Party as their presidential candidate. Obama had been propelled to the public stage by the same momentum that had driven MKL to the public podium where he made speeches that touched hearts like Obama’s. A careful review of the speeches and approaches of Obama shows that he had adopted the same principle of universalism which draws humanity into one large and connected community. As a civil rights lawyer, he had defended the cause of the economically vulnerable, disadvantaged and disparaged members of his society; a trait that most revolutionaries have in common.

For when one exits from the preoccupation with self and project his energy into helping and meeting the needs of others, he/she inadvertently keys into a reservoir of power that is beyond him. Statesmen of old have proven this; selfless politicians know this; great inventors have experienced this; avant-garde artists know of this phenomenon; and the list goes on. When they stepped out of the cocoon of self, they become elevated in a sense to a realm of existence that only a few men have walked in. Martin Luther King (MLK) talked about his dream of a changed America, Obama latched in on the moment to prove the veracity of MLK’s optimism. Like MKL, mammoth crowds pressed together to hear Obama speak in Berlin and Paris, and many others got bitten by the bug of his change mantra while glued to their television sets; which can be translated as ‘ MLK’s Dream Has Now Come True!”
Messianic figures usually step out when the stage is set; times of despair, hopelessness and fear. With their oratory and charm, they paint a picture of a tomorrow that is better than today and bereft of the frustrations and disappointments of yesterday. Adolf Hitler would paint the picture of a superior Aryan race that would subjugate the world and his German audience got inspired to wage the war to conquer the world. Winston Churchill in response to Hitler’s treachery created the picture of invincibility in the hearts of despairing Britons. They would rise from the rubbles of German bombs to ally with other nations to defeat Hitler and his marauding army. That is the turf of messianic figures and Obama’s rise is not completely a new phenomenon though he deserves credit for the records he had broken politically speaking.

The present Obama’s phenomenon was possible because the people of America and the world had become disillusioned with the American leadership and the negative impacts it has had on the economy, politics and culture of other races. For many, Obama has evolved into an epiphany; a messiah of sorts that would bale the world out the economic and political quagmire we’re stuck in. That may explain the pervasive acceptance he has had worldwide; more than any living or dead president of any nation. But like most messianic figures, Obama may not fulfill the dreams of change he had envisioned and inspired in the hearts of his hearers and supporters worldwide. The non-performance of his campaign manifesto would make many to malign and crucify him at the stakes of public opinion. From the celebrity figure he now is, Obama might someday be tagged with the persona non grata toga in the hearts of disappointed disciples.

He would someday face the reality that the spiritual halo over a messianic figure doesn’t necessarily shield him from failure, especially in the eyes of both his supporters and detractors. His failure at bringing true freedom and change might make him become the fodder for the canons of the political and religious opponents whose authority and power of control had become weakened by the entrance of Obama on the messianic scene. When this happens, he would experience the metaphor of triumphantly entering Jerusalem as a King, only to be humiliated and crucified as a villain and enemy of the peoplen like the Jewish rabbi, Yeshua Hamashea! The same crowd that hailed Obama will likely be the same crowd that will angrily chant “To hell with Obama” and mock him as he carries his cross to Golgotha; to the place of skulls where outcasts are crucified!

The world and humanity at large should place our hopes on the right place, and not necessarily on persons. Charismatic people are also mortal humans and messianic figures will also come and go, but what matters is what they leave imprinted on our hearts. The Jewish Rabbi died, but left hope in the hearts of his followers who were ready, and indeed died for the values and principles he had taught them. The kingdom he came to establish was one that was ‘within’; one that changed the thinking of many and their actions. That is what most messiahs are able to do. Martin Luther King Jr. was mortal, hence died from the gunshots of a trigger-happy assassin, but his death changed the political landscape of America. In the same vein, John F. Kennedy died from the well-aimed hit of another assassin. Obama is a mortal like us, and we would do him much good by not elevating him to the realm of a messiah which he is not, and may never be. Rather, humanity’s hope for true freedom should be placed in the right perspective. We might have ability to change and transform our destinies, but there is a power beyond our ability that can bring lasting change. When we tap into that, then we would experience true freedom of our spirits!
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The Author is a Poet and Health Expert based in Abuja Nigeria and can be reached via : halal3k@yahoo.com

ISAIAH OSAGIEDE: THE HONEST AND SACRIFICIAL ABUJA TAXI DRIVER

2008-11-04T04:07:00.000-08:00

ISAIAH OSAGIEDE: THE HONEST AND SACRIFICIAL ABUJA DRIVER

Since yesterday, I have not ceased to tell anyone who cares about Isaiah Osagiede, a cabman I met in Abuja on Sunday evening after a friend’s music album launch at Cedi Plaza Abuja. It was late at night and I needed to go home and rest after a tiring but fun-filled night. The best of Abuja’s poets were on ground to thrill the crowd with avant garde poetry. Eugenia Abu added the big sister support by reading from her book, in a Blink of an Eye’. Comedians loosened tension on stressed faces as they reeled out jobs that caused the ribs to heave and shake with laughter. Soulful music backed up by acoustic guitars made the air salubrious. My poet friend, Storyteller thrilled the crowd with his enchanting baritonic voice that lulls the heart of the hearers to submission. The double-album, “E Go be” and ‘De javu’ is destined to take performance poetry and spoken word to an enviable but not necessarily an elitist height.

From this elated mood, I plummeted to an all time low when I realized my phone was gone after the taxicab dropped me off at my apartment at Ministry of Finance Quarters in Wuye district of the FCT Abuja. It was past 10pm and I didn’t know what to do. Anyway, I used a friend’s phone to call mine and all I heard was, ‘the number you’re calling is not available please try again later’…what an annoying response I got from that ‘MTN Lady”. I tried over and again but no luck, so I decided to head back to Cedi Plaza hoping I’d see the cab. Luckily, he came back to Cedi plaza in a couple of minutes and I asked if he’d seen my phone. I described the make and the guy exclaimed, ‘bros I be see that phone wt one passenger dat I picked from you estate. The guy just dey play with am and come switch am off. I been think say na him get am oh...bros, I must find dat guy because I see am with your phone...”

Isaiah Osagiede was visibly angry and wished he had an idea that it was my phone. He showed me his own two phones and even tried to convince to take one of his so I can be using till I get a new one, but I declined. He showed me relics and mementoes that some passengers had forgotten in his car previously, hoping that someday he’d run into them so they can pick up their stuff. He told me his dad is a retired police officer of the ASP rank, and he had a Police ID that wards of police officers have by default. He promised to do all he can to track the culprit whom he was sure of recognizing. He was certain the suspect lived within my estate since that was where he picked him up earlier. We gave me his two numbers and promised to follow on the lead the following morning…i.e. yesterday!

From his residence in Suleja (Niger State) he went back to Wuye Abuja to track the suspect. Luck was on his side as he spotted the guy at the same spot he’d picked up the previous night. He walked up to the suspect and stealthily frisked him with his eyes…Bingo, he saw the phone; yeah my phone in the hands of the guy! Osagiede then went on to quiz him.

Osagiede: “Bros you sabi me?’
Suspect: “I no sabi you at all”
Osagiede: Na me wey carry you last night from here now…how you go take forget now?”
Suspect: “Ok…I now remember you’
Osagiede: “Wetin carry me come na dis phone wey dey your hand…na my broad get am and him drop am for my car last nit b4 I carry you”
Suspect: “Na my phone be dis….”
Osagiede: “if na you phone, wetin be d number and why you come switch am off…?”
Suspect: “Emmm…..” he stammered.
Osagiede: “You are under arrest”, brandishing his ‘police Id card. “I go carry ou go Force Headquarters for area 11”. And before onlookers could intervene, he whisked Mr. Suspect into his car and headed for Force Headquarters.

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At the police station, the suspect was quizzed and no sooner, the truth came out like a precious golden nugget.

Suspect: “No be my phone…I been see am for the car seat, and come carry am after I switch am off.”
Police: “Where is the simcard?”
Suspect: “I throw am away for the bush wey dey around the bridge wey Julius Berger dey build near National Stadium’
Police: “If you no go find that simcard, we go detain you for here…”
Suspect: “Oga abeg, I go go find am 4 d bush…”

The Police had seized his ID card and phones and he was later taken to the site for the search by Osagiede. The search went on for hours under the hot and piercing sunrays…he found it later and headed back to the Police station. The sim was inserted into my phone and it was switched on…and it came alive again! At about that time I called Osagiede to check the progress.

Nuggetzman: “Osagiede how far now…?
Osagiede: “Bros we don find the phone but the guy throw way the simcard’
Nuggetzman: “just bring back the phone, and forget about the simcard, I go try do welcome back…”
Osagiede: “No worry oga, police say dey nogo release him if him no find the simcard..so na him we dey search for now…”
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By late afternoon, I put a call through again to Osagiede and he confirmed that the simcard has been found. And to confirm, I picked up my office lined and dialed 08033187876, a number I had used since 2002 and it rang for the first time! I pinched my self to be sure this is for real. But the phone was still at the police station, and Osagiede whose car had developed a fault along the line assured me he’d go and pick it up. He wanted me to avoid any contacts with the police for obvious reasons….to not complicate matters having told them that I am his brother, even though we only met by chance!
After leaving the mechanic, Osagiede took a cab to the Force Headquarters to collect the phone. Since the police wanted to be sure I had given him the authority to pick it up on my behalf, they decided to speak with me on phone.
Police Officer: “Do you know this guy…he said he’s your brother?
Nuggeztman: “Yes, I know him” I replied.
Police Officer: “Should we give him your phone?”
Nuggetzman: “Please I’d appreciate that...”
Police Officer: “Oga, but for things like this, you suppose come to show police some appreciation.”
Nuggetzman: “I know, but I won’t be able to come as I am at work now...”
Police Officer: “I will send a message to you through your broad…”
Nuggetzman: “Ok.”

The Police had wanted to detain the suspect, but this would mean I’d have to make a statement and all, thus complicating the matter. Not sure I was ready for such melodrama; I told Osagiede that the suspect should be released since he’s produced both my phone and the simcard. He conveyed the message to the Police who reluctantly released Mr. Suspect after securing his own bail with some money; worth MTN’s highest recharge card value. The Police would’ve had more than this had I showed up at their station to show ‘appreciation’.Osagiede Isaiah and I have become friends. Having lived in Benin City couple of years back, we can now greet and exchange banters with each other in Bini language.There are still many Nigerians in the ilk of Isaiah Osagiede…we only need to tell the world more about them!

The Moral Regeneration of the Inner Man

2008-10-06T05:44:00.000-07:00

Our world is changing rapidly. The mores , norms, and values that moulded the consciences of men are fast decaying, and sadly many of us ( Christains) are no better than those who don't profess any allegiance to Christ and His teachings. We live a life of double standards in a more general sense and our forte is only the ritual of religious rites and services. As I talk with Christian friends , I sense a degree of discontent with the seeming inability of the church...(spelt Christians) to impact society's morals in a more positive sense. It's as though christians are increasings getting weaker and spiritually bland with time and now lack moral strength to advocate and initiate change in the society.
But we don't have to wait until we all get fired up with super-spiritual power before we can constitute the moral minority that can impact the majority. We can actually start by standing solidly on our convictions and values, as that makes a stronger statement than when we use loud speakers to blow-up rooftops! We can share our bible-shaped thoughts through our spoken and written word which can go beyond the reach of our voice. We can stand for justice, love and truth and defend the voiceless and vulnerable. The poor can find solace in our affirmative action that involves actively engaging in actions that will uplift and release many from teh grips of poverty, and oppression. We can speak up against misrule and wastage of resources and use the media ad other avenues to challenge leadership to follow the path of honor ; ensuring that they do what they had signed in the service contract with the people, and the general society.

Not many know about the Russian Nobel Laurette, writer and christian philosopher, Leo Tolstoy and how his ideas had impacted humanity. Only a few know that he wrote the book " The Kingdom of God is Within You" which is one of the earliest works that attempted to take the Church out of the walls of the Church Building into the real of social realities in a modern society.While Americans grapple with the repercussions of waging war in Iraq, Tolstoy though from a noble stock challenged both the war policies of the Russian government which was supported by the church of his day. His political restivenes only came after he studied and imbibed the counter-cultural teachings of Christ. He was reputed to have asked “How can you kill people, when it is written in God’s commandment: ‘Thou shalt not murder’?” He was of the view that that Christ envisioned a society based on love and tolerance, one that is completely incompatible with war and all violence.Tolstoy takes the viewpoint that "Thou shalt not murder", and that therefore all governments who wage war are directly affronting the Christian principles that should guide all life.

Tolstoy became a transformed and socially-conscious man after he studied deeply the teachings of Jesus especially, The sermon on the mount and Luke 17:21 made the most impact on his psyche that he literally came to live and ultimately died for what he believed in. He promoted the principle of non-resistance when confronted by violence, as taught by Jesus and through his 'Letter to the Hindu', he was able to influence and change M. Ghandi who read his books and through the exchange of letters from Tolstoy. He advocated non-violence as a solution to nationalist woes and as a means for seeing the hypocrisy of the church. In reading Jesus' words in the Gospels, Tolstoy notes that the modern church is a heretical creation:“Nowhere nor in anything, except in the assertion of the Church, can we find that God or Christ founded anything like what churchmen understand by the Church.”
These words had profound influence on Mahatma Gandhi, who later used these ideas to stage a revolution in colonial India.Reading Tolstoy's book opened up the mind of the world-famous Tolstoy to Gandhi, who was still a young protester living in South Africa at the time. And Gandi overtime succeeded in galvanishing the Indian people together to end the power of colonialism in India without firing a canon at the British establishment. Martin Luther King Jr would adopt the same principles of non-violence to break the powers of segregation in America through the civil rights movement.
Words have power to change the inner man, and the greatest revolution the world will ever experience is the regeneration of the inner man. When the soul and spirit of a man becomes transformed and empowered, one experiences true freedom and that is how powerful God's word can be to anyone that willingly opens his/her heart to read,study and imbibe it 'hookline and sinker!' If one can accept the fact that slavery of all sorts are dehumanizing, then we can look inwards to draw strength that can help us break free from all the various forms of modern slavery that had subjugated the inhabitants of todays world: materialism,quest for illicit pleasure,superficiality,injustice,violence,hate,anger and all.

One stunning dividend that comes with the transformation of the inner man is the realization of what loves truly means. When God's words as taught by Jesus Christ enters and takes residence in our innerman, it lets the root of love grow deep into our hearts such that we become true 'lovers' by default. We'd love God for sure and He'll become the greatest object of our quest for knowledge and pleasure.And this love for God would find its expression in the love for others! And when we love others as ourselves, in all its practical remifications, we'll become true disciples and followers of Christ and we'd have no reason to 'prove' to anyone that we are christians. They'd tag us chrstians and no longer be seen as all-professing Christian 'hypocrites'!

I'm discovering more and more nuggets and truths as I continue on my inward journey...of seeking to know what faith is, and how I can live out the Christian life in more practical terms in today's world!

A Journey into the Deep: Reflections of a Longing Heart

2008-10-03T02:32:00.000-07:00

A Journey into the Deep: Reflections of a Longing Heart

The clouds were heavily bloated and had shut off the sun’s smiles. I figured it was best I rushed back home rather than hang out with some friends yesterday evening. When I got back home, I spent over an hour in the quietness of my room, listening to a series of teaching on meditation by Pastor Poju Oyemade (www.insightsforliving.org) which I had played all night. Incidentally, what things he shared had been consistent with some lessons I had learned in the past couple of weeks and months. I had come to a point in my life where I had to review my priorities as a professing Christian, a Believer and Disciple of Christ. I have had to ask myself questions that demanded practical answers?

What does it mean to be a 21st century Christian? How do my Words and Actions reflect my Christian beliefs and values? Do I really know what it means to walk by faith on a daily basis? Do I really believe strongly in the goodness and trustworthiness of God? What are my priorities and what informs my decisions and choices? How do I see and define personal success vis-à-vis the kingdom principles that Jesus Christ taught and lived out? Have I been continually aligning myself with the standards of 21st century culture rather than the counter-culture standards that Jesus had set and I willingly subscribed to follow as one of His followers when I deliberately ‘gave my life” to Christ’ many years ago?

When it was really getting dark, I took a prayer-walk round my neighborhood…muttering and praying under my breath. No one knew what I was doing as it looked more like a casual stroll. It’s been months and weeks gone by since I embarked on a prayer walk which was a constant feature for me over a year ago. The walk was more than a walk. It was a conversational walk. Talking to Divinity. Communing with God and sharing my heart with Him. I told Him how I strongly yearn for a revival of my spiritual life which seem to have been on a plateau for months, and knowing that one can’t really remain spiritually static, I figured I may’ve been on a downward drift. If not, what would make me wake up and not spend quality time in prayer and reflection each morning? What would make me prefer to ‘read books’ rather than do extensive study of the Bible and meditation? Though a vibrant prayer life or consistent bible study doesn’t necessarily mean one is on top of his spiritual game, but such spiritual disciplines help in no small way in re-aligning our hearts to the path of spirituality.

Spiritual disciplines like prayer, fasting and meditation help in no small way in elevating and expanding our thinking and mindset to the point that our perspectives, value system and lifestyle become more in tune with God’s ways. True spirituality is about losing ourselves to gain more of God such that we ‘think, speak and act’ in way that reminds our neighbors about God. From my interactions with people, majority of people within the Christian church circles and without are looking for signposts and people that truly reflect God in their lives. Though it may appear a Herculean task in today’s culture, God still desires to have a ‘remnant’ that would bear His name and reflect his nature; symbolized by a life of faith, anchored on hope of eternity, which is expressed by a life of love for God and one’s neighbors/s.
Life is full of lessons, and according to Derek Prince, ‘Most lessons that prove to be of permanent value in life are often learned the hard way or after a period of personal struggle and suffering. Hence, they are like a pearl of great price.” How true for I have reasoned deeply and reflected on my life and have come to the conclusion that I would be a fool if I heretofore take my relationship with God for granted any longer. It may not look fashionable to go the way of the cross, but that’s about the surest way of growing spiritually as it’s obedience in absolute terms. God requires obedience to Him as the most important response that draws us into a strong partnership with Him.

Derek Prince further said that “A sure mark of spiritual maturity is when God Himself, and God alone, becomes both the source of our deepest joy and the object of our highest devotion.” This might look like a mirage and a delusive mission, but I doubt if anyone who grows deeper into the depths of God would ever regret it. The blessings are deeper than what life can be able to measure in terms of pleasure! Lord, bring me back to the path that only leads to your heart!

Felix Abrahams Obi
Abuja Nigeria,
Friday,3rd october 2008

Spiritually Creative Intellects

2008-10-02T03:13:00.000-07:00

Nigeria clocked her 48th year of post-independence and freedom from the grips of colonialism. In Abuja, my local church organized a 5km walk to celebrate the uniqueness of Nigeria as a nation and Nigerians as a peopele full of great potentials. WE carried placards to showcase what we want in Nigeria:good governance mechanism, banishment of corruption and sang jubilant songs to thank God for keeping us as a nation.Nigerians may be angry with their country's leaders, but not a few have great hopes that one day 'e go better 4 me and u'. We trudge thro' trials and tribulations and always come out strong. I and a couple of guys danced and sang hilariously like 'Kegites' and one would wonder if we were not on top of the 'gyration' chants and dance while on campus. But it was great fun...but the sun had its toll on some of us, save for the chilled bottles of water that were distributed to us freely!I got back home tired and worn out, hence stayed indoors much of the day. I thought I would be able to follow-up on some of my writing 'projects' but my brain was too fusy to allow any much of thinking and creativity.

But it wasn't only Nigeria that had her 'birthday'...my big 'uncle',artistic mentor and role model, Ben Okafor (www.benokafor.com) also had his birthday on October 1st, and he's spent 54 years on earth. He is a respected singer, songwriter,poet,writer, playright, political activist, and humanitarian, who has dedicated much of his life to the fight for freedom and justice across the world. He was involved and worked with Bishop Desmond Tutu during the aparthied era. I introduced his songs to a close friend recently and he was literally bemused when he discovered that Ben Okafor is a full-blooded Nigerian though UK-based. A music so artistically rich as Bob Marley's yet deeply spiritual to point the seeker heaven-ward. So together on 30th September night, we sent Ben Okafor a birthday e-card which he recieved via his publicist.

The highpoint of my day was when I called later in the evening to speak with Uncle Ben who was in a truly celebratory mood. We talked about the music scene in Nigeria and why we need his songs and Cds to flood the market etc. His dream is to see the few musicians who would breakn out from the mould to focus on their spirituality without being spiritually and intelelctually bankrupt. Truly we need a breed of contemporary Nigerian, nay African musicians who will stir our intellect while keeping our souls well-directed in the quest for union with God. Our music should not only titilate of emotions and cause us to dance only. We need music that will make us spiritually and intellectually alive. And that's one thing Ben Okafor's songs have done to me these past 4 years I started listening to them.

A former housemate once observed that I usually get into a deeply contemplative or sometimes inspired mood whenever Ben Okafor's music is playing in the background, in addition to jazz music for sure. And it's not unusual to hear Ben's ongs wasping thro' the speakers while my fingers are punching away on the leyboard...in a writing 'frenzy'!I still dream of when I would strum the guitar and sing songs of freedom that are spiritually and intellectually based, yet not lacking in creativity.

God Bless Nigeria...and also Bless Ben Okafor who is Nigeria's birthday mate!

Living on a Borrowed Life

2008-09-24T09:17:00.000-07:00

LIVING ON A BORROWED LIFE!

BY Felix Abrahams Obi
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Tears glistened the eyes of everyone that knew her. Family. Friends. We were all present to pay her the last honours. Handkerchiefs dabbed trails of left by tear drops on our faces. But not everyone cried. Some wore sober miens. Others seem to be in a celebratory mood, but they didn’t slap hands though. For it was an interment ceremony of a woman we so much admired, if not loved. Her death was not so much of a surprise to us but many were not eager to let her go, as she was an embodiment of human and divine virtue. It was not her first call from yonder. She had answered death’s call 2 years earlier, and was willing to not reject this second and last call. Not even her loving husband and three wonderful kids could deter her for she was too eager to leave our visible cosmos for a land she had glimpsed two years earlier.

We knew when the diagnosis was confirmed. Cancer! But she lived on like one whose skin was brushed by a harmless feather. Not a few in her local church were unaware that she had a ‘terminal disease’ for which she visited the doctors for treatment. The chemo drugs came handy from relatives in the US who battled to preserve her cells from the rampaging cells that have run amuck. They were merciless and wouldn’t allow the normal cells thrive and preserve the essence of life.

A day came. That day was a dark and dreary one. She was gone and the doctors had warned us. But the husband, a firebrand pastor in Ikeja Lagos wouldn’t give up his beloved wife to be pulled out of his embrace by the gnawing and vicious fangs of death. The first time I met him in the 1990s, I was amazed at his piety and depth of spirituality. He literally lived a ‘fasted and prayed-up life’ and you’d feel honoured if he accepts to dine and wine with your household. Yet he was full of humility and his voice only bellowed and quaked when he climbs the pulpit on Sundays or at midweek services. Though not a spiritually ostentatious man, it was a known secret that he fasted and prayed for ninety days before the started his church, after resigning from his academic post as a lecturer in Rivers State. Before then, he had been a toast of churches whose members felt revived whenever he ministered in their churches as a visiting evangelist.

Now his wife of about 10years had gone. She was his only companion as he is a very quiet and unassuming man and not too many will feel comfortable lounging at the abode of a quiet man. Not known to be a loser, he locked himself up, refused any consolation and pummeled heaven with prayers. He wouldn’t give up out of weariness. His heart groaned and his voice quaked as he offered intense and heaven-renting prayers all day. After long and chequered hours of travails and supplication, the cold body of his long-dead wife, began to warm up. In the manner of a well-rehearsed sequence of events, her eyelids flickered and opened, her legs twitched, fingers moved and her mouth then opened. She heaved a heavy sigh of disappointed.

‘Darl’ she managed to call, ‘why wouldn’t you let me be?”
Shouts of Hallelujah rent the air as everyone saw the miracle live. Shock waves ran down the spines of close family members and sympathizing friends who had called in to condole with the loving pastor.

“What a beautiful place I’ve been and you forcefully brought me back”. She seemed a bit disappointed to have been brought back to life, and was oblivious of how much sorrow her death had caused many that loved her. But the shouts of joy muffled her seeming protestations and people danced and praised God exuberantly. Truly they would for all their lifetime on earth believe in the power of answered prayers by those who ask in faith, and not waiver in unbelief. At least, the prayer warrior pastor had brought his wife back to life!

The excitement died down days after. Though her family members were happy to have her back, she seemed withdrawn from the daily realities of living on earth. At the Thanksgiving Service, she shared with the congregation about her ‘trip to heaven’ and the glorious things that she ‘saw’ which she would not exchange for all the pleasure, fame and wealth in this world. She announced that it was the fervent prayers of her pastor-husband that made the Gates of Splendour be shut against her. But she was determined to go back there sooner than later, hence her concept of ‘living on a borrowed life’. No one was surprised when she decided to discontinue her PhD studies to allow her support her pastor-husband on full-time ministry. She would have been the 4th among her siblings to earn a PhD had she not discontinued her studies.

Like a woman on a mission, she poured in her life into serving God, and being a blessing to people that crossed her part. She was one person that seemed to have a perpetual smile that exuded from her heart of love. Nothing seemed to bother her and everyone around felt and experienced pure and undiluted love. But we all didn’t understand the full import of the ‘borrowed life concept’ until that fateful day when the husband had gone on a week-long crusade in Port Harcourt. Maybe it was her best bet to avoid any more snags of her trip to paradise. That night, she slept but by morning, her nostrils didn’t give out a whiff of warm air. She was gone and there was no prayer warrior to wake her up from the eternal sleep.

The hubby felt the tension in his heart as he saw her wave him goodbye in his sleep. It was far more real than a fading vision or trance. He hit the floor again to pray earnestly like he’d always do, but the thickness of the heavenly shield seemed impenetrable to his pleadings and supplication. The Gates of Splendour had admitted his wife, help-mate and confidante. Before the sun’s rays signaled the break of dawn, the news of her death roused him from his sleep. His loss was heaven’s gain. His loss was ostensibly our gain for we saw how truly a life can be poured in the loving service of God and others.

At the funeral which I attended with a friend who also was battling with cancer, the husband encouraged everyone to take a cue from the wife, by ‘living on a borrowed life’. I have not yet forgotten though this true-life story was played out before my eyes in 2003. She was a true auntie, and her husband has not remarried as he is yet to meet another woman like her yet!
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NB: This is based on a true-life story.
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Felix Abrahams is a poet, and writer based in Abuja and can be reached via halal3k@yahoo.com

Is Life on earth a melodrama of sorts

2008-09-17T03:26:00.000-07:00

A close friend of 10years and I had a heart2heart gist in the early hours of Tuesday, 9th Sept. 2008. He had earlier on sent me a text message that he wanted us to pray together, and we've done so a few times the last couple of weeks. He’s off and on as he has projects outside Abuja and whenever he’s around, I found out that we can talk for hours w/o holding back. It’s amazing how we’ve had similar life experiences and have made certain commitments and vows to God that had impacted heavily on the choices we’ve made in life, and we tend to have had similar experiences in the areas of relationship. We’re both closer to 40yrs than we are away from it and have made frantic efforts to get hooked with the ladies we fancied (but it never worked), over and above those that fancied us and after letting them down, they’ve still remained loyal to us as friends.

The gist was not a pity party, nor a time of lamentations for failed relationship attempts. Rather we saw a pattern and wondered if the delay in marriage was a kinda jinx or was there a higher purpose that we aint privy to, that is playing out with our active participation and overt consent. It was at this point that he began to share insights on what he had gleaned from reading his Bible earlier about God’s plans and purposes. We talked about ‘living by faith’ and realized that we’d got it all muddled up overtime cos like many, we saw faith as a way of getting things done, rather than a dynamic and continuous relationship with God. A relationship based on TRUST…that God is worthy of being trusted because of His TRUSTWORTHINESS as displayed in the experience/s of people in biblical times and our post-Christ generation that has spanned two millennia.

So what is God up to with our lives here on earth? Is He up to some melodramatic games? Why does He seem to not bother about the actions of certain people and punish others for minor ‘moral infractions?’ For instance, my friend before he entered the university had fancied a pretty young lady and had started off an early relationship with her. He seemed to have received a warning in form of instant sickness from this ‘jealous’ GOD who told him to steer clear in a warning vision I guess. He quickly told God he was off the relationship, and the fever disappeared in a jiffy. This was followed by a vow to serve God in campus fellowships thro’out his 6 yrs in the University. Couple of girls got close but didn’t know why he took a scram each time even though he loved some deeply. And anytime he made attempts to do it his own way, things always went awry and set off a chain event of heartbreaks and disappointments and anger on the part of the girls and him too. He finally decided to seek God and hear what He’d say to him. God reminded him in a still small voice that some15yrs ago when He (God) spoke to him (my prayer buddy) about marriage; He outlined the pattern and events that will play out that will make him (my friend) know in advance. But that my friend had chosen to do it his own way, hence had hit the wall severally and wounded both his soul and the girls in question.

My friend decided to not check out new babes again, or follow on a lead or recommendations from his sisters or close female friends. For 2 months, he decided to take out time to pray, and didn’t call any new prospective girl on phone, or follow-up on any previous links. He just PRAYED and asked a close spiritual mentor to pray along with him. He became convinced that God had a plan for him, and it would do him great good if He ‘enlisted’ God as the Head of Mission or Chief of Party. Two months after, things have progressed awesomely, and he’s met a new girl and things have moved faster and smoother than the previous relationships that he started off based on how much he admired or liked the girls in question .They’ve bonded so fast as though they knew each other in a previous ‘life cycle’ dating back to eternity past. He’s so amazed…that God could work this way. And marriage is now the certain and final destination unlike the previous efforts that got shipwrecked and all efforts to keep them aboard failed.

God has asked him deep questions that changed his insight about marriage such as: why was Joseph sent to Egypt? Why was Moses adopted by Pharaoh’s daughter and later became the 1st Leader and Prophet to the Jews against his plans and dreams? Why was Jeremiah chosen to become a prophet from his mother’s womb….when he didn’t apply 4d job in the 1st place? Why did John the Baptist’s barren for years only to get pregnant just before the Virgin Mary took in …did she know that John’s ministry will herald that of the Messiah? There are questions that I can’t answer but I’ve accepted the fact that God works out His purposes in and thro our lives when we cooperate with Him, and so long as we keep taking off on our own tangent, the journey will stretch un-necessarily.

Lord, teach me Your Ways…and help me know what you want me to do, even when I don’t know what you want to DO with and thro me…help me Lord I pray!

The Emotional/Relationship Life of Jesus Christ

2008-07-16T01:20:00.000-07:00

I have had two interesting weeks of soul searching and learning from the school of life.As an undergraduate in far away Kano years ago,I once boasted to one of my lecturers that I am a student of the mind. I was eager to understand the workings and the complexities of the mind, so I could tap its powers and have the 'mind-over-matter' experiences. But the good ol' christian lady fired back with some degree of concern, " Why not a student of the Spirit?" and that got me thinking. It made me begin to see life beyond the fringes of what the mind can reckon with alone. I realised that spiritual understanding can actually help in enlightening the mind...and with time, I have come to see that a spiritually-vibrant life is the key to a balanced emotional life.

Last week, I had bouts of migraine headcahe that crippled my mind and I could only work for 2 full days. At some point I had to reckon that there is a limit to which one can push the mind and the body. I had books to read, public health journals to review and articles to write. My mind became so fussy and discombobulated that I couldn't read a line without my head throbbing and the right eye threatening to pop out of the socket. I dreaded anything called bright lights and my eyes looked dazed and bloodshot, and the pain killer pills did little to assuage the agony and ache I had to endure.

At the wee hours of the morning while everywhere was quiet, I stepped out of my room and reclined on a chair at the balcony to seep in the salubrious air of the morning.I heard the chirpings of crickets and the chorus of other insects and creeping animals.My mind wondered aimlessly and ruminated about a lot of things. i wondered why we have emotions and all...and i thought about Jesus and his emotional life, and was dazed that he had a very balanced emotional life that complimented his spirituality. I realised that a sound and emotionally healthy life is as important as life itself.

I came to a point that I realised how emotionally drained I was...which was beyond physical weariness. I needed to REST and indeed forced myself to rest without feeling guilty that I allowed time to tick past me without making any efforts to redeem it. No book to read; no journal to write; no writing project to engage my mind.Passing thro a day without giving in to the urge to write or read was hard to bear. But I had to accept the reality that life is not to be activity-filled but to be lived and enjoyed. It is okay to pause and savour life and drink deeply from the wellsprings that life offers.

The emotional wilderness I passed through made me reflect on the emotional and relationship life of Jesus Christ, and I was amazed at what I found out. He lived and enjoyed life to the full. He attended parties, dinners and hung out with the bad guys to the chagrin of the religious cabal. He lived an 'open-book' lifestyle that made him express emotions freely without a care. though seem as a superstar, he had nothing to hide. He was a squatter yet didn't play funny when a disciple asked for his house address; Jesus Christ was a floater. He borrowed boats without feeling ashamed. He borrowed a donkey since he had no chariot or cart to ride to Jerusalem.

He publicly wept when his friend Lazarus died.Others may have felt he would act like a superstar, and do a show at the graveside. But all he did was cry...and the women and stoic men watched in amazement....but he still raised Lazarus from the dead. He didn't hide his fears when it became obvious his death on the cross was imminent. He cried at the Garden of Gethsemane...and on the Cross of Calvary, he cried like a disconsolate child, " Father, why have you forsaken me, your only son?"...

As I reflected and meditated on the emotional life of Jesus, I felt a release and came to be at home with who I am...and I felt so free to be me. I had earlier told a respected friend how emotionally drained and weak i felt, but she quipped that she has always seen me as a 'Tower of Strength'. Maybe I had unwittingly presented myself to the significant others as one that is kinda 'superhuman' in some sense who can't feel drained and emotionally week. One who's mentally focussed to not go thro' any bouts of uncertainties...the list goes. But I am as human and frail as anyother and a part of humanity with all the emotional cramps and malaise that we so often hide from the next person.

I have begun a journey...to explore the emotional and relationship life of Jesus Christ....and I plan to share my thoughts in the JULY edition of the WELLSPRINGS NEWSLETTER. Keep a date with me and ensure that you give attention to your emotional wellbeing.

Shalom.
Felix Abrahams Obi
Nuggetzman